gettingitwrite2

[gettingitwrite2]

🕯️ The Letter - by Marie M. Christina

The letter arrived this morning. No postage. Just tucked neatly between the pages of yesterday’s newspaper like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

My name, scrawled in ink the color of rust, stretched across the envelope in handwriting so familiar my stomach turned. I used to dot my i’s with tiny stars like that. Back in high school, before everything changed. Before the accident.

Before the funeral.

I didn’t open it right away. I stood in the kitchen for a long time, barefoot on the cold tile, holding it in one hand while the kettle screamed itself hoarse behind me. It smelled faintly of lavender and ash.

The return address wasn’t typed. Just a single word written beneath the flap:

“Home.”

I haven’t been back to that house in seventeen years. Not since the fire. Not since I saw the walls blackened and peeling like skin. I watched it crumble through the rear window of the car, clutching a teddy bear with one button eye and the scent of smoke clinging to my hair. My foster mother told me not to look back.

I looked back anyway.

I finally opened the letter around noon. The sunlight through the blinds carved shadows across the floor like long, bony fingers. The paper was thick. Old. And the words inside were mine.

⸻

Dear Evelyn,

You shouldn’t have left. You promised. I waited. The stairs creaked all night, but it wasn’t the wind. I think you know that. You were the last one to see me. You said you’d come back for me. I believed you.

You lied.

Come home. It’s time.

⸻

There was no signature. Just a single pressed flower taped at the bottom of the page.

A violet. My sister’s favorite.

I dropped the letter and backed away like it had burned me, but the air in the apartment had gone cold and wet, like fog pressing against my skin. The windows had all steamed over, though it was sunny a minute ago.

Something scratched gently at the front door.

Not knocked.

Scratched.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t move.

The letter lay open on the floor. The violet was bleeding ink.

And then I heard her voice—

soft and broken, as though it had been echoing down the wrong side of the veil for too long.

“Evie…”

I was seven when they buried her. Her casket was too small. Her lips were painted the wrong shade. But this voice, this whisper, was real. And close. Right behind the door.

I don’t remember unlocking it.

I only remember the scent.

Lavender and ash.

[gettingitwrite2]

The Story That Found Me — Grace of Forgotten Saints

Some stories begin with a lightning bolt of inspiration. Others sneak in like mist through an open window, wrapping around you so gently you don’t realize you’ve been claimed until it’s too late.

Grace of Forgotten Saints was like that.

I didn’t set out to write a novel about grief and reincarnation and musical ambition. I wasn’t planning to blend 1980s Atlantic City lounge culture with medieval dreamscapes, soul connections, and psychic grandmothers. But Grace Kelly (yes, her real name, no relation to Monaco) strolled into my imagination in ripped black jeans and a silver bangle—and never left.

She came to me as a woman on the edge. Grieving her family. Battling stage fright. Clinging to music like a life raft. Haunted—quite literally—by dreams that might be past lives, warnings, or something stranger still. I thought I was writing a coming-of-age tale about resilience.

Then came the dream sequences. The dagger. The mysterious king. The name “Alouette Toussaint.” And I realized I was writing something far deeper—a love story across lifetimes, a reckoning with trauma, and a whispered invitation to believe in the unseen.

The book is moody, musical, and full of ghosts (both emotional and maybe actual). It’s about those moments in life when you think you’re rebuilding, only to discover you’re remembering. Remembering who you were, who you loved, and who you’re still becoming.

And of course, there’s a drummer. Because no one said emotional catharsis couldn’t be sexy.

Writing Grace of Forgotten Saints has been a journey through grief, healing, heritage, and the way the past finds ways to tap us on the shoulder—whether through an old bracelet, a dream we can’t shake, or a stranger’s voice that feels eerily familiar.

If you’ve ever loved music, mourned someone deeply, or wondered whether some meetings are fated… you might find something of yourself in this story.

Because sometimes the stories we write aren’t just fiction—they’re the map back to ourselves.

—Marie Christina

📚 Follow for updates on Grace, ghosts, dreams, drummers, and more.

[gettingitwrite2]

Hi, I’m Marie— and welcome to Trying to Get It Write (gettingitwrite2), where cozy mysteries, haunted houses, feminist fairy tales, and second acts all have a place at the table (usually with tea…or coffee).

I wasn’t always a full-time writer. For years, I had a “normal life” with a job I loved at an animal hospital, a daily routine, a sense of control—until all of that vanished one day when I went into heart failure. After a major surgery and time in the hospital and a lot of physical therapy…my old life was gone. My old job didn’t want me back, they wanted someone younger, healthier.So, my health had changed. My job was gone. I was left sitting in silence, trying to make sense of it all. I wasn’t dead, I still had value even if no one saw it, I knew it was there.

So, I turned to writing—not as a career move, it as a lifeline. At first, I wrote to process the fear, the grief, the massive shift in identity. But something unexpected happened. Stories started to grow. I remembered I’d always wanted to write novels—so I did.

Now, writing is my second act. And this blog? It’s where I share behind-the-scenes of that journey—warts, wins and words alike.

📚 What I write

I’m an author of multiple novels in varying degrees of completion, with more in the works than any reasonable person should try to write at once. My stories span genres, but you’ll usually find:

- Cozy seaside mysteries with scones and secrets (and real recipes)

- Gothic horror that blurs the line between madness and the supernatural

- Historical Fiction (probably my favorite genre) where overlooked women of the past finally take center stage and rock it!

- Fairytales retold through a darker, fiercely feminist lens

- And occasionally, speculative fiction about AI, revolutions, or reincarnation (because, why not?)

Basically: if it has a sense of mystery, a strong female lead, and a few poetic ghosts—I’m probably writing it. I don’t believe a writer has to be pigeonholed into one genre. Write what you like, write what you feel.

💻 What You’ll Find Here on the Blog

This space is a mix of cozy, chaotic, and candid. Expect:

- Snippets and excerpts from my books and works in progress

- Behind-the-scenes posts on my writing process, research rabbit holes, and occasional publishing thoughts

- Character moodboards, aesthetic inspiration, and “meet the cast” style posts

- Rare baking experiments pulled straight from one of my cozy mystery series (with varying degrees of success)

- Reflections on resilience, identity, and starting over when life doesn’t go as planned

- And maybe a few rants about grammar gremlins or the ghosts that seem to live in my drafts or even my house

🐾 A Few More Things About Me

- I live with a 90-pound red-nose pit-lab mix named Angus, who thinks he’s a lapdog.

- I have a deep love of teacups, mythology and folklore, music and cozy rainy days.

- I sometimes cry over fictional characters I’ve created

- I believe stories have the power to save us— and sometimes, writing them does just that.

So whether you’re a reader, a writer, or someone stumbling through your own plot twist, welcome. I’m glad you’re here. Let’s try to get it write—together.