I am a writer. There I said it. But Am I a Writer??? There’s the debate. The one going on in the recesses of my brain in recent days. I’ve never considered myself a writer. I’m a blogger. But, does that make me a writer?
I’m embarking on a writer’s retreat this weekend, but I’m not sure I belong.
Others have called me a writer. At my sweet Uncle’s funeral in December several of my relatives encouraged me when I mentioned writing about my “legendary Uncle” for the 31 day challenge in the coming year. “You’re the writer in the family” they said. Even then, it didn’t click. I’m a writer?
I tell people I blog, or “I’m a blogger”, but NEVER “I’m a WRITER” That title comes with a certain flair. A flair that I don’t possess.
But. I. am. a. writer.
Truth be told, I’ve been a writer for a long time.
I’ve even been published. HA!
In my 6th grade graduation program.
I wrote a poem, and it made the program. Wanna know the title?
Yep! Those little beastly creatures that can invade any home with an animal host. And invade with a vengeance. They had invaded my childhood home and I wrote about it. (Thinking back, I’m SURE my mother LOVED that!)
Today I have no idea what that poem said. And I’m not even sure a copy still exists. Maybe somewhere in a box in my one of my mothers closets…or, maybe not.
When I was young, I collected poetry. Mostly dribble from the Teen Beat magazine that was so popular back then.
Over the years I have written a few praise choruses that have remained mine alone.
And in my early married years, I submitted articles to a little home published magazine called “Homewords” or “Homewards” I can’t remember which any longer, or even the name of the sweet lady that published it.
I suppose the magazine is long gone.
Copies of those articles are stored in a box somewhere amid yesteryear’s memories.
I tend to think of writers as those with articles of worth. Those with books published.
all I would consider writers…authors.
Call me old-fashioned, but does word-smithing on a blog, mainly as a place to pen my thoughts for myself, make me a writer?
Some would say yes, claim it; others, like myself, not so much.
I’ve always said I write for me. For myself. I had some folks encouraging me to go more public and I did; but before that, and even now, I’m content if no one reads my blog. That said, don’t get me wrong. I do enjoy comments, and likes; but I refuse to let page views and statistics dictate my blog. I’ve been writing well over 10 years…I have a postie note with the exact date I started blogging scribbled down somewhere around here but that’s not important to me.
If I wrote in a diary instead of a blog (weblog) would I be a writer?
If my poetry and praise choruses stay to myself does that make me a writer?
If I were to paint a picture, would that make me a painter?
What about singing? I LOVE to sing. But does that make me a singer?
Dancer? I taught ballroom dancing and won trophies in competitions many years ago. I LOVE to dance! Does that make me a dancer?
Speaker? I’ve spoken to groups many times over the years, but am a speaker?
I used to autocross and I’ve driven an open wheel formula car at Road Atlanta. Does that make me a race car driver?
I think just because I do something, it doesn’t make me something.
So for now, I’ll be content to call myself
not a writer, but one who writes.
One who writes
P.S. After attending the FMF Retreat, I realized that I can have a writing LIFE without having a writing CAREER. I AM a writer!!!!!! !***This was a post I wrote before the FMFRetreat, as I started reading through “On Being a Writer” I’ve tweaked it a little to accommodate the link up; but it is nearly exactly the same as I don’t want to lose how I felt at the time. ***
I’m linking up with the On Being A Writer discussion group over at Kate’s Heading Home. Wanna join us? It’s not too late!