I was in kindergarten when I picked up my first novel, which a family friend had given me to save for when I was actually old enough to read it, and I never looked back. I knew that I could read picture books, so why couldn’t I read a bunch of words smushed together with no pictures?
After that point, I devoured books like it was going out of style. I read Sweet Valley High, the Babysitters Club, Goosebumps, pick your poison. I was always above my reading level by several grades. I remember walking through the grocery store with my mom, reading while trying to navigate the store. I read in the dark car, hungrily absorbing all of the words I could catch when we passed under a street light.
I remember as a tween, I took a 4 hour bus trip and forgot a book. I was horribly lost without one, and read everything I could get my hands on; car magazines, the Globe and Mail, song lyrics, street signs; anything to distract me from not having a book.
My love of reading translated into a desire to write.
I wrote a whole bunch of short stories and even wrote my elementary school’s newsletter. I got to take an hour after my recess every month or so to put together a column in the newsletter that went home with my peers.
At nine years old, I decided I was going to write a children’s book. I called it “Pigs in Peanut Butter” and it rhymed. It was actually pretty wonderful. I still remember most of the book off by heart.
It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to write a book. When people would ask what I wanted to do when I grew up, I’d answer that I wanted to be an author. I wanted to write something substantial; something that people would read all over the world.
As an adult, I haven’t even considered starting to write a book. After all, what would I write about? Sometimes, when I come across blog posts discussing how to become a better writer on a blog, I’m a bit taken aback.
I had never considered blogging writing. I mean, obviously it is, in the literal sense of the word; we, as bloggers, are expressing ourselves through written words. But as a little girl, dreaming of what I’d become when I was older, blogging wasn’t even on my radar (shouldn’t surprise you – was blogging even a thing in the 90’s?). Even into high school, as blogging gained popularity, it never crossed my mind that something so simple could satisfy my desire to write.
As I’ve began to read, and participate in, more blogs, I have found some beautifully written prose that blow me away. That make me thing “yes. That is writing” (in the figurative sense of the word).
The jury is still out for me. It’s not my traditional sense of writing, but I’m starting to warm to the idea. Maybe I’m the only one who has a weird definition of what “writing” is.
So, I’m interested, dear readers (writers?) – Do you consider blogging “writing”? If you’re a blogger, do you consider yourself a writer?