Somebody turned out the lights.

This blog’s purpose was originally intended as an outlet to solely document my journey as a writer (aspiring author, as it were), but, as one can see scrolling through the posts, I haven’t really used it much.  That particular journey has been a roller coaster and still is an adventure unfolding. I could talk for hours about it.

However, that’s not what I want to talk about today.

You see, life has a funny way of twisting and turning much the same as my writing journey has.  There are highs–and, boy, when you’re there, you can see into that distance forever.  I know what that feels like, the euphoria and satisfaction of being completely at peace with the path you’re on, the future stretching before you, the plans coming to fruition.  It’s elation and it’s happiness, and it’s even better when you are surrounded with those you love and who love you in return.  There isn’t a better feeling than basking in that love-glow, that rightness.  Belonging.  It adds a sparkle to your blood akin to champagne, a spark to life itself. I can vividly remember driving home from work one day and tearing up with happy tears, so content and joyful was I in my life.

What I need to talk about today, though, is the flipside of that, the deep dive into the dark that must exist for us to truly feel the deep-rooted appreciation for the highs. What I want to talk about today is that aftershock when your world gets rocked, your trust, heart, or that plan gets broken, and you’re left sifting through the pieces and wondering how the hell you got to this murky place.

The better part of the past year has been that for me.

It’s the listless, aimless, sleepless, gray purgatory one slips to when that aforementioned future, when the life you were so completely wrapped up in, shatters. At first, when my spiral first began, I told myself (and everyone around me) I was fine.  I socialized. I wrote–albeit depthless, mechanical writing. I put the broken pieces back together, not even caring if they fit how they were supposed to.  The illusion of being whole was what mattered.  I cracked jokes, I laughed, I looked happy. Hell, I probably thought I was happy.  But truth is, like that thin crust of ice that forms when the first hard freeze finally gets to the small pond, it wasn’t solid.  It wasn’t real.  It only took a few steps before I fell through.

The past few months in particular have been the hardest.  Despite the fact I still have some amazing people in my life, I have a good job, I have my health, a cute apartment, an active social life–I am empty.  The hollowness, for someone so used to propagating and feeling joy, is what I noticed first.  The more I tugged on and examined that feeling, like a piece of yarn dangling from that threadbare sweater in the back of your closet, the more the illusion I’d built myself unraveled.  Soon the whole thing fell apart and I was left looking at a jumble of strings that had once made up something cozy and comfortable and whole.

It’s difficult for me to admit any of this.  I’ve always prided myself in my strength, my ability to focus on the positives. What I’d never taken into consideration, though, was how, in the darkness, sometimes you can’t see those positives.  Sometimes they’re masked by the things you’ve lost, the things you mourn and grieve for. And I am here to tell you as someone near and dear to me told me recently–there is no time frame for grief.  There is no countdown for mourning loss, whatever that word means to you.  The death of a dream, an idea, a future, a person–those things sink deep down into you. It’s visceral and it’s real pain. You can bury it, you can hide it, you can ignore it, but those emotions will come clawing back out to the surface.

That looks different for everyone, too, that bubbling up of molten, gut-wrenching sensation. Sometimes, it’s a slow boil. Sometimes, it’s a sudden explosion of realized hurt. Some people react to it with anger. Some people withdraw. Some internalize or reach out for support. Some pray.

I wallow.

There have been many long days, long nights, during which my body feels numb and my brain feels hazy. Days where my head’s filled with tangled thoughts, and even dressing, showering, or walking feels like a monumental chore. Some days where tears seem right around the corner and it’s all you can to hold it back.  There are other days I wish the tears would come, just for the cathartic release I feel they’d offer. Of course, those are the days they refuse to fall.  Those days are the worst for me. The walls close in and all I want to do is scream, but that would require far too much energy. Those are the days my thoughts become self-destructive and sleeping for hours seems the safest course of action. And so I sleep.

There is no happy ending to this post.  I’ve finally, very recently opened up about this to a few people I trust in my life.  Each one of them asked me why I hadn’t written about what I was feeling, what I was struggling through. “You’re a writer,” they said.  “So write about it. Get it out.”

Truth is, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to write for pleasure. I’ve given up that and tried to write these feelings. The words wouldn’t come.  Every time I’d sit down and stare at my computer, that cursor would stare back from the blank page and shrug.  How do you even begin to pick apart and try to understand your emotions when those sticky spider-web strands are wrapped around and into everything? The more I tried to understand what I was feeling, the more the emotions faded to monotony and I was left with that same hollowness.

So how do you understand it? The answer is one day at a time.  Today, these words came out.  Maybe more will come tomorrow.  Maybe I will post this.  Maybe I won’t.  Maybe I will and no one will read it.  But if one single person does, somebody perhaps going through what I’m going through right now, and sees they aren’t alone–then this aimless, rambling post has served its purpose.  More so even than a release for me.  I’ve always gotten joy from helping people, from connecting and sharing this burden that is life. Being a soft spot for others to fall and lean on brings me happiness, and, despite the melodramatics above, I know I’m not the only person to feel this lost. I won’t be the last. This isn’t the end. If I’m honest with myself, I’m sure I will be here again someday. There are those moments in life where the ground beneath us gives way and we free-fall, that swoop in your stomach, that ringing in your ears, that sudden silence in your mind.  There are times we are pushed off that edge.  I feel as though I’ve been falling for some time now.

But I am not alone.  YOU are not alone.  I don’t know how to get out of this hole yet. But what I do know is that I will.  Whether it be climbing back out, being pulled back out, or digging my own damn way, I’ll make it out.  You can, too.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading.  If you didn’t, you won’t read this–but I don’t blame you.  For those following my author social media, there will be updates to come on that.  For now, this is where I am. This is the reason for my silence.  Even this post is terrifying, the thought of sharing it with the interwebs in its entirety, for all eyes to see and judge. I feel very vulnerable…and at the same time, it’s oh-so-freeing.

At any rate, thank you for your part in my healing. Maybe, if you need it, this can be part of yours, too.  Feel free to reach out.


Until next time,




Somebody Pinch Me

Welp, guys.  It happened. IT happened.

I girded my loins (I love that phrase so much), read, re-read, and polished my queries, fretted for days over a dozen versions of a synopsis, and, after I finished those, I read my space opera romance enough times, my eyes bled Event Horizon-style and I was fairly certain the entire thing was total crap.  Seriously.  Total crap.

But, in the end, with bated breath and my stomach swirling like I’d just eaten Taco Bell slathered in several packets of Diablo sauce until it tasted like bad decisions, I hit send anyway.  I sent my book-baby into the vast, uncharted territory that is the [cue dramatic organ music] query portals.  Like Jor-El and Lara sending a baby Kal-El into the great beyond and a greater destiny, I watched it go and clutched at my heart.  Then I curled into the fetal position under my desk and wailed.

I’m still there. Hello from the darkness. 

Okay, here’s the full story. Once I had polished the crap out of this particular book, I purchased the 2017 Guide to Literary Agents.  I can’t say enough how useful that resource is for all things traditional publishing.  Seriously, go pick up a copy and read it if you’re considering the traditional route and are looking for guidance (Here’s a link to it on Amazon: It helped alleviate a ton of nerves and made me feel like I had somewhat of a handle (albeit a tiny handle…a teacup handle, if you will, one of those delicate ones on the fancy teacups) on the situation.  I created a spreadsheet with possible agents—I personally looked for agents interested in science fiction, romance, and fantasy to start off.  I figured since I write in all three genres, ideally, I’d love to have someone interested in all aspects of my work.  A good a place to start as any, right? 

Once I’d found a couple handfuls or so, I narrowed it down to four…and then I hit send. 

I waited.  I wrote.  I deleted.  I paced.  I didn’t sleep.  I chewed gum like it was going out of style and my jaw cramped.  Then I switched to lollipops.  I contemplated chew toys.  I obsessed over the fact someone, some stranger—or worse! Oh, Lord, a committee of strangers—read and dissected my work.  They could be doing that very thing at that very moment.  I imagined it and nearly vomited.  To occupy myself, I made the mistake of reading back over said work and found a billion things I could have changed.   

I assumed the fetal position and wailed some more. 

Then I got it…THE email.  The response.  A week later, it sat in my inbox, calling my name in a whisper.  Taunting me.  I steeled myself and sat down at my laptop. With one hand over my eyes, I opened it and peeked through my fingers to read the first line.

It was a rejection.

All color faded to gray.  This was what I had suspected all along.  I couldn’t write.  It was total crap.  The whole idea, the manuscript, the characters…who was I fooling?  I couldn’t write science fiction.  I was a joke.  It was total crap!  I resigned myself to what I assumed would be a parade of rejections. 

Only they didn’t come.  Four days later, I received another email response.  This one, folks, was a manuscript request. I’d piqued an agent’s interest with my query and sample chapters, and they wanted to read more.    

I cried.  Like a baby.  I didn’t even curl into the fetal position for it.  I lay on the floor on my back and cried.  My query had caught someone’s eye!  Maybe it wasn’t crap!  Hope bloomed again.  My fingers shook as I typed out a reply and quickly formatted my manuscript to send. 

A week went by.  I fiddled around on Twitter, finished the creation of an author page on Facebook (hey-oh! Plug time.  I went back to regularly scheduled programming. At night, I had nightmares of giant auditoriums displaying my work on a projectors.  A school of sharks in business attire laughed and jotted down notes in red pen with fin-fingers as they tore apart my book-baby.  I woke up in a cold sweat.

Eventually, the agency got back to me.  They “liked it, but didn’t love it.”  But the seed of hope had been planted.  It grew from there, creeping and climbing like an ivy vine until I skipped everywhere I went and found a field of dandelions to frolic through.  This was it!  I was chasing my dream.  I projected positivity to the universe. 

Time went by. I’d heard back from two now, and, while one had read the manuscript, in the end, I’d received two rejections. Encouraging, nicely worded rejections, but rejections nonetheless.

All the while, I searched for more people to query just in case and, in doing so, realized something: there aren’t an awful lot of agents out there looking for sci-fi adventure romance.  Granted, it’s a tad niche-y.  I know.  I knew it when I wrote the thing. But I, like so many others, sat down to write a book I would like to read. I like science fiction—I grew up on Star Wars, Star Trek, and, occasionally, when I was sneaky, Alien and Predator movies.  I love Firefly and Orson Scott Card, Ray Bradbury, and even Anne McCaffery (seriously, the Dragonriders of Pern series is still one of my top literary loves).  There had to be more people out there interested in the same things, right?  My book-baby had space, starship battles, aliens, and adventure with a little romance to spice things up. I liked it well enough.  Someone else had to. Didn’t they?

You’d think.  But I digress. 

I couldn’t find anybody else to query!  I took to Twitter to complain—the author community there is solid and I often scroll through it when I feel alone and lost in a sea of editing and rewrites.  It’s like bobbing in an ocean after a shipwreck and seeing someone else floating by, clinging to a piece of driftwood.  You give them a friendly head-nod, maybe even a wave (get it?! A WAVE in the ocean?!), and they nod back before the current takes them on their merry way.  See?  Comforting. 

Anyway, I took to Twitter to complain about my trouble finding agents interested in science fiction adventure with romance themes.  A few hours later, an intern from a literary agency contacted me and said she was working with an agent amassing a list—and that agent was interested in that very thing. My heart stopped.  It had been a month since I’d sent out my original set of queries, and there were a couple I had yet to hear back from.  I figured it couldn’t hurt…so I queried her.  She responded quickly—only a day or so later—and asked for the whole manuscript! I couldn’t believe it!  I’d caught her attention!  I sent it with barely a blink. 

A week passed.  I heard nothing.  Then, one day, I got the email…THE email, guys, containing those four happiest, blessed words.  Angels sang.  Lights shone down from the heavens to illuminate my workspace.  Butterflies and small, jewel-colored birds fluttered by, and I wondered how they’d gotten inside.  Then Morgan Freeman showed up and narrated my actions as I sat down at my computer and slowly moved the mouse icon over the email.  My heart gave up on its palpitations and finally just left my chest to go watch from the corner. 

“I loved your book.”

The wailing started again, but this time, it was the happy sort.  Someone loved it!  Somebody besides my best friends, my mom, and my fiancé LOVED what I’d written.  I cried and laughed, paced around, cried and laughed some more.  Several days later, we talked on the phone.  By the end of the day, I had an offer of representation. 

Fast forward a bit, past some contact with remaining queried agents I hadn’t heard back from, some finagling, some finalizing, and some fretting. This week, I signed with an agent. I still can’t believe it.

On a side note, I am so excited to work with Gina—it helps she’s totally rad on personal level, not to mention the complete confidence I have in her on a professional capacity.  The ball is rolling.  Sure, it sort of resembles that Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark giant stone ball, and I’m really hoping it doesn’t pancake me in the process—but, hey, it’s a-moving!   

I know it’ll be a long journey.  I’m prepared for the waiting and for possible disappointment.  I’m also optimistic.  This is what I’ve dreamt about since I was a small child and old enough to hold color pencils. Cat, the adventures of a cat named Cat, is a true literary masterpiece hailing from that time.  Copies coming to a bookstore near you. 

In a nutshell, this whole process has been a whirlwind.  A terrifying, glittery, tear-filled whirlwind.  Not to be confused with Whirlwind, the suspenseful novel I wrote in middle school starring all my school buddies and featuring my crush at the time. 

In all seriousness, I’m writing this to tell you—YOU, person perusing blogs about blogging (earlier blog post reference)—go after the damn dreams.  Seriously. I know the fear. I know the self-doubt.  We’re old pals.  But what if—no, not what if… WHEN you make it, when you achieve the goal you’ve sought to take on, you’ll thank yourself for taking the risk.  Is it scary? Of course! It feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute and hoping somebody down there has a very deep pool full of some very soft water.  But this, this rush, is what makes life worth living, right?  Great things never come from comfort zones. Can you be happy inside them?  Of course.  There’s contentment there.  But I can’t imagine going through life and never feeling what I feel at this very moment: hope.  Hope and that feeling that maybe, just maybe, those dreams I’ve held onto all these years could actually be feasible. 

It’s never too late to chase your dreams.   

Stay tuned.


Blog Block

Welcome to my blog.  In this blog, I will be blogging.  About what? you may ask.  That, my new friend, is the million dollar question.
 As an aspiring author currently stuck in the limbo between finding an agent (I am exceedingly grateful I’ve found one I connect with and adore and am working on finalizing our partnership) and finding a publishing company, my extensive research cited the importance of a social media presence and platform.  In today’s digital and well-connected age, I, for one, can definitely see the advantages of such a presence.  An accessible author with internet visibility will garner more attention than a simple brick-and-mortar paperback presence on a book store shelf.  I’ve completed the first step and have a Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram presence (shameless plug: search D Marie Whisman on any of the aforementioned social media sites and come hang out).  The next logical step to take was creating a website and, with it, a blog.  When I first sat down to create this page, I thought, really, though, how hard could blogging be?  Especially considering I write daily as it is—editing, working on my current project, or simply brainstorming the constant flow of new ideas.  I mean, that’s basically all a blog is, right?  Writing?
 I couldn’t be more wrong.
I began with my favorite thing–research into blogging.  Did you know there are blogs about blogs?  There are blogs upon blogs of blogs about blogging.  I read so much about blogging, the word blog began to look funny.  You know what I mean?  Of course you do.  You’re probably staring at it this very moment.
 The biggest thing I continued to come across was uniqueness. Find that thing, they said, the thing nobody’s done before and brand it!  Make it yours.  Again, how difficult could that be? After all, I’m a new writer undertaking the grand adventure that is traditional publishing.  I write and immensely enjoy reading science fiction and fantasy adventure.
There are blogs out there about that already.
There are blogs about every. single. thing. If you can think it, someone is blogging it. There are blogs about food, blogs about crafts, blogs about home improvement, landscaping, movies, schooling. There blogs about photography, art, pop culture, technology, dancing… There are blogs about couponing and business and design.  And there are, of course, a billion blogs run by writers, writers just like little old me…writers better than little old me.  Not that that’s saying much, but still.
In case you hadn’t noticed in the bio blurb on this page, I am a self-aware overthinker.  At this point, my brainstorming sheet looked like an actual storm had gone through, wielding pens with black and blue ink, and I couldn’t even read my own handwriting.  I thought about this blog constantly. I stared at the blank screen and questioned my very sanity.  I grocery shopped and desperately wondered if there were blogs about that (there are, in case you were wondering).  I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, furiously attempting to come up with something, anything, that the collective they of the interwebs would be even vaguely interested in reading about.  How do you create a unique platform when there is an army of platforms out there, shouting to the masses with ingenious, well thought-out, unique ideas?!
The truth is, you can’t.  The truth is, while in a special set of circumstances a blog will attract readership on its own, the majority of writer blogs garner an audience because the author itself has an audience. Sure, there are steps one can take.  I fully intend to feature reviews for books by fellow authors in my genres, promote on social media, and do all the little magical things to help grow this readership.  But, in the end, if you don’t care about me (or my upcoming science fiction adventure with a romance flair–hey-oh! More to come on that one!), you’re not going to care about this blog.
 With that realization came a sudden thought: I could enjoy this.  This blog, in all its single-page glory, could now become my outlet as I make my fumbling way through transitioning from a terrified writer sending out my manuscript with high hopes and more than a few terrified tears to becoming a real-life (look, Ma, no hands!) author.  Because it’s happening.  It’s happening right now and, frankly, I’m glad to have you, dear reader, along for the ride.  All two of you.
 In conclusion, thanks for following this rambling blog.  As always, if you have a book in the science fiction, urban fantasy, paranormal, or high fantasy with some adventure and romance themes, I’d love to connect.  If you’re a reader and you have a brilliant blog idea you’d like to share, send a message!  I could obviously use your input. If you have questions about my book—more info will be coming at you oh-so-soon!
 That’s all for now.  I will be updating weekly at this point until I have more to share.  In the meantime, come see me on Twitter or Facebook and say hello. I spend way too much time on both platforms.