I’d never really thought of myself as a writer, although I’ve written since I was a child. I filled notebooks with copious diary entries, chronicling every single detail of my live, my loves, my disappointments, my joys, and my hurts. As if someone would actually read the ramblings of a teenager one day!

Then there was the poetry. Journals and notebooks filled again with verse. Some won contests in high school. Some were published. Then all were lost when the most important notebook tragically vanished into thin air. I hope someone found it and was amazed by the poetry of an angst-ridden 1970’s-era teen!

The years following college weren’t writing years. I could barely keep my head above water in an abusive marriage and then as a single mother. There wasn’t time or courage to hold a pen to paper and tell my story. I journaled some…but those were a record, not an outlet.

But I always read. Books, magazines, the back of the cereal box. Whatever. I read everything I could get my hands on. And they say that reading is almost as important as the actual writing for those who aspire to have others read their words.

The empty nest years brought about more time to put my thoughts on paper. I’ve always had a lot of words. Now I had a lot of time to organize them. And so my writing life began.

Bible studies, sermons, and more journals is where it started. Then one day I stumbled across the world of blogging. Oh. My. Gosh. You mean I could write my words and someone would actually read them!! That was my first thought.

Oh. My. Gosh. You mean I could write my words and someone would actually read them? That was my second thought.

I was terrified at the idea. But the call to write was stronger than the terror. So I built a blog and I wrote some posts. And they sat there. Until one day I got tired of being scared and I hit publish.

I’ve never looked back again.

So I write. But call myself a writer? That’s a whole ‘nother story.

There have been multiple times over the last 10  years or so that people have randomly asked me when I was going to write a book. I don’t just mean the people who know and love me…and who have actually read what I wrote. Sometimes the question came from total strangers who hadn’t read my blog or heard me speak. The question usually made me run screaming from the room.

Not that I hadn’t thought of writing a book. I had. But the idea of people reading it filled me with terror again.

Over the years the call to write a book grew stronger and stronger. I’m still working on the first one I started a couple of years ago, as well as one I just began this year. But call myself a writer? Nah!


Until one day when I was talking with a friend who has published a couple of books. I don’t remember the exact question he asked but I do know my response was that I wrote, but I wasn’t a writer. I also remember his response to that, “Of course you are! You write, don’t you? That makes you a writer.”

That’s the day this writer was born.


OnBeingaWriterCoverborderThis post was inspired by On Being a Writer by Ann Kroeker & Charity Singleton Craig and was written for an online discussion group about the book over at Kate Motaung‘s place.

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