Blog
Like Kaitlin Maverick in The Catalyst Trilogy, I'm following where my own musings may lead—hopefully toward connecting with like-minded souls, or even those who offer respectfully worded, healthy disagreement.
I.
"We take ourselves wherever we go..."
"....from country to city, city to country....alone to partnered, partnered to alone...."
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This excerpt from one of my poems in The Elemental Collection came to mind this morning as I perched on my rusty metal yard chair — which, despite its wear, still entertains me with its spinning. I gazed into the small pond in our yard, marveling at the fish gliding beneath the surface and at the grackles battling a flood of pigeons and cardinals with their sharp cries for the seeds we’d laid out. (Even the usual uninvited squirrel — risking a backward-dangled acrobatic descent for a bite — didn’t stand a chance today.)
We moved here to suburbia in 2021 during the pandemic, hoping for “distanced and safe time in nature” for my little one — especially in case viral restrictions lingered in the city. Luckily, they didn’t. But nor did my daughter take to the backyard the way I did. The bugs bug her (and though I still shriek at bees — even the ones I write about — I’ve been making my peace with them). She gets her quick fix: a cartwheel, feeding the animals, maybe a summer swim. And then she wants to go back inside.
Meanwhile, I could linger here for hours — daydreaming, contemplating life, writing, or simply listening to music in thoughtful silence.
It made me realize how often parents create or invest in experiences for their children, only to discover they’re the ones who needed them most. I call this “a second chance at life... a do-over” in another poem — the chance to re-experience childhood through your own child’s eyes, but now with the depth and gratitude that only age can offer. The days when you once longed to “get older already” now come full circle.
“...Growing younger as we grow older...” I write in my birthday poem in Write Out Your Drops.
“...Drunk on life, while remaining sober.”
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​-Sel
II.
Be able to see the 'Monet' in the everyday...
After receiving an unexpected outpouring of ‘likes’ for a random photo I took while watching the swans with my daughter in Nesconset, Long Island—and shared on my IG story—my heart was caught between awe and quiet mourning. The swans were gliding through shallow waters, hemmed in by a tide that had pulled back and lily pads thick enough to block their path.
And I had a thought...
In my writing life—a “side hobby” that slowly became my deepest passion—I’ve known similar waters. I’ve navigated my own kind of murk: waters sometimes polluted by doubt, critique, or silence. But like the swans nudging their way forward—eating through the lily pads or pushing past them—I, too, have had to adapt. Not out of some grand sense of wisdom.
But out of sheer necessity.
I’ve begun publishing through smaller presses—grateful for what I’ve learned from them, whether directly or indirectly—but I wanted my work to carry my unaltered imprint, to remain true to my authentic voice in its semi-autobiographical form. And so I’ve adapted by turning to self-publishing. I haven’t even queried a literary agent, though perhaps I should have—to ease the emotional, mental, and financial burden of trying to do it all on my own, as I so often have.
Perhaps doing so—publishing through a mainstream press—might have helped bring greater attention to the lesser-voiced stories I’ve shared: stories that deserved the kind of professional marketing I couldn’t access, but which may be essential in today’s algorithm- and trend-driven literary world. (I hope it’s not too late. I plan to query soon.)
I’ve also had to adapt by making the most of limited support. Strangers online have often embraced my work more than some of those I once considered close friends—friends whose support rarely went beyond my first book, a “congratulations” message, or a passing social media ‘like.’ Few took the time to read my later works, or to keep a piece of me on their shelves as quiet moral support—even when the books were freely available during some of the promotional weeks I advertised.
Ironically, some of these very people inspired poems or characters—reflections of false-facade friendships—and they’ll never know it. But perhaps that’s the writer’s quiet power: a kind of innocent revenge, written in truth. ;)
As one of my poems puts it:
“...they call it experience and maturity,
...she hides that it’s necessary adaptability...”
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And another:
“...bleed out your heart,
...weed out the pain,
...through your art...”
Like the swans, I’ve learned to move through tangled waters with quiet resilience—making a path where there was none, finding grace even in the struggle. Nature adapts not for applause or excellence, but for survival. And so have I—writing my way through it all.
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III.
Invisible Movement: Staticity in a Restless World
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the quiet challenges that often go unnoticed by others—the kind that unfold behind smiles and in the margins of our routines. Life doesn’t always bloom and roar when it asks us to grow. Sometimes, it whispers through fatigue, restlessness, or a persistent feeling that something needs to shift.
We each carry a private weight, whether it’s emotional, relational, or circumstantial. For me, the past few weeks have tested my balance—between what I'm made to feel like I owe to others and what I must reclaim for myself. Obligation versus Authenticity. It’s a dance that many of us know too well, especially in a world that rarely pauses long enough for us to catch our breath.
And yet, even in this tug-of-war between inner quiet and outer noise, I’ve found resilience in small acts: writing through uncertainty, listening more than explaining, and taking space where I can find it. It’s not always graceful. But it’s real.
As the world faces its own tangled griefs—war, displacement, disconnection—I’m reminded that personal struggles and global ones are more connected than we think.
"We are all a mere drop in the ocean called 'humanity'...."- Write Out Your Drops
We are all navigating complexity. And we are all looking for ways to hold on to what’s meaningful.
If you’re feeling stretched thin or quietly overwhelmed, know you’re not alone. There’s courage in showing up, even gently. There’s power in simply continuing.
Here’s to a new week, month, season...even if the arrival carries both hope and heaviness. We move forward anyway.
IV.
What’s Your Book About? (The Eternal Logline Question)
If there's one question I’ve been asked more than any other throughout my indie publishing journey, it’s this:
“What is your series about?”
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No matter the setting (whether it’s over email, on social media, or at a recent Barnes & Noble signing here on Long Island)- it has always come up. And now that I’ve started querying literary agents (yes, even post-self-publishing—shoutout to the rare but inspiring authors who made the leap to traditional representation), I’ve discovered a new version of that same question: “What’s your logline?”
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For those unfamiliar, a logline is essentially a one-sentence pitch. Sounds simple enough, right? But if you've ever tried summarizing a multi-POV, genre-blending, generational saga in just a sentence, you know it's anything but!
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Still, after much reflection- and some inspiration from fellow writers-I decided it was time to share mine. So, here it is, now officially posted on my website for readers, agents, and curious minds alike:
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When a restless expat wife in Norway is seduced into a world of elemental mysticism rooted in Quranic lore and forbidden love, her awakening ‘catalyzes’ a generational saga that blurs the line between coincidence and destiny, interweaving diverse characters from her family and circle as they each face their own reckoning.
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It’s the product of reviewing dozens of loglines in similar genres and trying to encapsulate what my story truly is: a fusion of voices, cultures, and timelines that (I promise—don’t just take my word for it; reviewers have said so too) ultimately comes together into something greater than the sum of its parts.
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Whether you're a new visitor, a longtime reader, or a fellow author navigating the querying world—thank you for being here. I hope this glimpse into my story intrigues you enough to explore further.
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And to the thoughtful fellow writer who asked me that question at my last signing—and ended up buying a copy of one of my books: I see you, just as I see every aspiring writer who (I hope) feels a spark of inspiration from my journey.
I’m sending you my best.
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V.
Trigger Warnings in Literature vs. Real Life
On writing difficult scenes, reader responses, and the power of storytelling to reflect pain and transformation
The books in this series include scenes involving spiritual intimacy, possession, and sexual encounters without informed consent. These moments are meant to explore both the seductive and dangerous aspects of contact with the supernatural. They are not intended to romanticize harm, but form part of a broader arc of healing and reckoning that becomes clear by the end of the trilogy. Reader discretion is advised.
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I've recently felt the need to place this disclaimer at the beginning of each book in The Catalyst Trilogy after being genuinely taken aback by the 'shock' factor of some of the scenes by some readers... which was never my intention.
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This trilogy was my first work of long-form fiction, and though the story evolved into the realm of fantasy, I hadn’t read deeply in the genre beforehand. I was unaware, for instance, of the debates stirred by works like A Court of Thorns and Roses—which also engage with similarly taboo and unsettling themes.
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Certain scenes in my books—particularly those involving jinn possession and instances of non-consensual intimacy—may be difficult to read. I see that more clearly now, and I appreciate those who brought it to my attention with care.
My aim was never to romanticize these moments. In fact, I worried that readers might misconstrue some elements—especially in the case of a more gentle or appealing character like Finn Du Feu...and imagine the idea of possession as something to be desired. That concern stayed with me.
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My goal was to explore the complicated and, at times, dangerous intimacy that can emerge through spiritual entanglement. I wanted to examine how power—supernatural or human—can be misused, and how the loss of agency, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, can leave lasting scars.​
But scars can also be sites of transformation.
These scenes were written not to provoke or sensationalize, but to hold space for the darker edges of mysticism, vulnerability, and healing... within the broader narrative of a family and friendship saga.
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​After all, real life doesn’t come with trigger warnings—literature sometimes can, and perhaps should, especially when it dares to reflect life’s darker truths.
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Thank you, dear reader, for journeying through both the light and shadow with me.
VI.
Happy Haunting: Autumn's Invitation to Embrace Aging & Death
My daughter recently said something that stuck with me: “This Halloween, I want to look scary ... otherwise it’s just a costume show.”
It made me pause.
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Coincidentally ‘fall’ing in autumn,
the season that marks the fading
and eventual death of greenery and flowers, this holiday mirrors human life. While some may associate it with ‘satanic rituals,’ I prefer to see it as a chance to bridge generations through cultural tradition, offering joy and meaning that people of all backgrounds can appreciate.
For children, Halloween is pure play- a chance to dress up, to transform, to step into another world for a night. For teenagers and twenty-somethings, the holiday shifts: it becomes an opportunity to look attractive, to capture the perfect photo, to stand out at parties.
But somewhere in our thirties, the thrill seems to wane. Costumes gather dust. The night itself feels more like a chore or a sugar rush for the kids.
And then, in the late thirties and early forties, something stirs again. Aging etches its first undeniable lines into the face, reminders that time isn’t endless. Suddenly, Halloween’s flirtation with death doesn’t feel like a child’s game anymore. It feels like a mirror, or maybe even a rehearsal.
This year, I find myself drawn back to costumes with depth: Ottoman clothes, old-fashioned garments, even remnants of past years. They’re not just disguises but conversations with history, with ancestors, with the inevitability of endings.
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Maybe that’s the shift: Halloween stops being about pretending to be someone else and becomes about facing what we all eventually will-
the body changing, the self transforming, the thin veil between life and death.
And somehow, that feels more honest.
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So maybe Halloween, as we age, isn’t just play at all- it’s a whisper from the other side.
The costumes we choose- whether Ottoman silks, a mask from years past, or something truly haunting- become less about disguise and more about recognition.
A recognition that death walks beside us, as it has for so many figures from the past... figures some still dress up as today.
And in that recognition, we learn to walk with death- not in fear, but in reverence of the ultimate certainty that awaits us all.
