The Emotional Cost – And Why I Refused to Quit
By Robert Stanek
I didn’t write Ruin Mist because it was easy.
I wrote it because I needed it.
And then—for nearly two decades—I had to watch as the story that meant everything to me became a target.
Not because it failed.
But because it succeeded not their way.
Because it didn’t wait for permission.
Because I didn’t play by the rules.
I endured years of death threats—anonymous, constant, surreal. Threats against me, against my family, against the readers who dared to support me. The sheer absurdity of receiving threats simply because I wrote a story was something I could never fully grasp.
This isn’t just about publishing.
This is about what it cost to keep going.
So let me tell you the part of the story I never wanted to write.
What You Didn’t See
You didn’t see the nights I stopped writing.
The days I sat in front of a blinking cursor and asked, “What’s the point?”
You didn’t see the emails I deleted before sending. The silence I swallowed every time someone shared another lie. The way bookstores quietly removed me from their shelves.
You didn’t see what it felt like to have something you created—something you bled into—dragged through mud by people who never even read it.
And worst of all?
You didn’t see the way that silence grew heavy. Not just online. Inside me.
Because when enough people try to erase you...
You start wondering if maybe they’re right.
A War on Two Fronts
What most people don’t know is that I wasn’t just fighting online trolls.
I was living with PTSD.
I was raising a child with special needs.
I was writing books to pay the bills—while watching the books that mattered most vanish beneath waves of lies.
Every time I opened a browser, I had to choose between protecting my mental health and protecting the truth.
Sometimes, I failed.
Sometimes, I let the trolls win.
Sometimes, I stopped answering emails.
Sometimes, I stopped believing there was a future for Ruin Mist.
But I never stopped writing.
Not really. Not deep down.
Because even when I couldn’t fight publicly—I was still building the world that saved me.
The Story Was Always Bigger Than Me
There were moments—honest, brutal moments—when I thought about quitting forever.
Not just the books.
Everything.
I’d look at the walls of my office lined with pages. Characters. Maps. Timelines. History. A universe.
And I’d think, “What’s the point if they won’t let the story live?”
But then the letters would come. Quiet, steady. Like a heartbeat.
- “This book changed my son’s life.”
- “I saw myself in Adrina.”
- “Vilmos made me feel like I wasn’t alone.”
Those words carried me.
Not because they praised me.
But because they reminded me that Ruin Mist didn’t just belong to me anymore.
It belonged to every reader who saw themselves in a broken kingdom, a buried truth, a girl who refused to stay silent.
That’s why I refused to quit.
Rage Wasn’t Enough. Hope Had to Matter More.
There were times I wanted to scream.
To name every troll.
To burn every lie to the ground.
But I didn’t want Ruin Mist to be a story about vengeance.
I wanted it to be a story about survival.
Because what matters most isn’t how hard you hit back.
It’s how long you can stand while the storm hits you.
That’s what Adrina did.
That’s what Vilmos did.
That’s what Seth did.
And if they could do it in fiction...
I could try in life.
You Don’t Get to Erase People Who Keep Showing Up
I’m still here.
Because the readers didn’t let me go.
Because the story never stopped calling.
Because the truth always finds a way through the noise.
What I’ve learned is this:
You don’t win by yelling louder.
You win by outlasting the silence.
And now, after 25 years, we’re done whispering.