Are Bloggers Writers? Let’s Discuss!

From time to time, I see a post published on either why bloggers are writers or why they are definitely not writers. Why a person cares how someone self-identifies is anyone’s guess, but that they do and of course, now I want to know more about what people think. Because apparently it is a divisive issue and I have been known to court controversy. “Shit disturber” is an epithet that has been thrown at used against said to me, from time to time. 🙂

I couldn’t find an accompanying Blogger’s Tears Irish whiskey. Can I infer from this that there is no distinction between the two groups? Hmmmm….

I’m happy to call myself a blogger – one who writes on her blog. If you think that blogging makes me a writer or most certainly not one, well…that is your prerogative, and your opinion and you are welcome to it. For most of my life – from a young child just learning to wield marks on a page with a chubby pencil to today – I have had to write, have admired published authors, and have wondered if I had what it took to be a writer myself. As a child I loved writing (and illustrating) fictional stories, but as I grew older I found that changed. I didn’t have that essential drive to create a fictional world and characters (damn!). However, I still needed to write. But could I ever be a writer if I didn’t write fiction?

As a young adult, I discovered this thing called creative non-fiction, and took after-work community college courses on the same. I continued to consume books on writers and writing. I even once ventured out to a so-called Writers’ Support Group in my hometown, thinking I could find my tribe and not feel so alone anymore. It was an….um…experience. I was not made welcome, despite their ad in the local paper that said otherwise. I had to listen to the other writers make in-jokes (not explained to me), and gossip about absent members of the group. Eventually the group pulled together to do an exercise – a timed writing from a prompt – and then we each had to read what we wrote. ALOUD. To this group.

It was absolutely terrifying for me.

When it was finally my turn, I read my piece…and got no feedback whatsoever. Yup, the sound of crickets greeted my offering, and the group moved onto the next participant.What did this mean? Was I that bad that nothing could be said to redeem what I wrote? Other people’s readings were commented on. WTF?!?

I left that meeting totally disheartened, and never went back. And thinking if this is what writers are all about (clique-y, petty, vengeful, passive-aggressive, jealous), I no longer want to be known as one. Like Groucho Marx, I had no interest in joining a club that wanted me as a member. Except, apparently they didn’t. Want me as a member. Ouch. I guess I could never call myself a writer.

Then the internet happened.

I discovered so many interesting voices on these things called blogs, which I just loved reading. In the early days, people (dare I call them writers???) wrote about everything, especially their take on their day-to-day lives, often in hilarious and insightful ways. Their voices were fresh and engaging and no one I was reading was trying to make a buck at it or conquer a niche or establish a brand, or land a book deal. They all seemed happy just to have a place to put their words, and I was happy to devour their writing. (Yes. Writing.)

A little over 11 years ago now, I started my own blog. One that has changed names and platforms over the years, and has grown with me. One that I still love today as my vehicle to get my words out there. One that has allowed me to finally (!) find my tribe. Am I now a writer? Have I always been a writer? Will I never be a writer? I don’t know if I even care anymore. All I know is that I write on my blog. I love it and I need to do it.

What makes a person a writer? Are you a writer when:

  • you support yourself with your words;
  • you write a book;
  • you write a short story;
  • you write an article;
  • you write ad copy;
  • you write plays;
  • you write scripts;
  • you ghost-write for others;
  • you write on a blog;
  • you write fiction;
  • you write non-fiction;
  • you write in a journal;
  • you are published by others; (do letters to the editor count? asking for a friend… 😉 )
  • you self-publish;
  • you possess a post-secondary education in writing;
  • you attend writing workshops and retreats;
  • others call you a writer;
  • you call yourself a writer;
  • you have an internet presence as a writer (published or not);
  • you have an editor;
  • you receive grants with which to support yourself as you write;
  • you have received awards and recognition for your written words;
  • you feel tortured and misunderstood? 😉

Any, all, or none of the above? What have I missed?

At what point can you call yourself a writer sans dispute?

Personally, I think that anyone who has the desire to write, and whose words can touch another person in a meaningful way as part of our shared human experience is a writer. And by that definition, the majority of bloggers I have read over the years have been and continue to be writers. I continue to aspire to be a writer. And even if the court of popular opinion decides that will never happen, I will always be proud of being a blogger.

Well, Tribe? What do you think? What makes a writer?

Rock (and write) on,

The WB

And Then There Were Two…

Days left in this year and my career, that is! Holy cats, how did I get here so fast? It seemed like only yesterday I was starting out, working (at minimum wage) even before officially graduating with my sparkly Bachelor of Science degree, at my first full-time job.

As the sun sets on the year and my working life…Late December Sunset on the river that is a few steps from my home.

I was one of the lucky ones – actually working in my field, thanks to a part-time job in a lab I picked up while working on my undergrad…that morphed into a full-time position once my studies were ended. But enough reminiscing on that for now. Maybe I’ll do a retrospective (or two) on my working life at some point on ye olde blogge, but that’s not the focus for today.

Some of you may have noticed it’s been a while since my last post – 28 days, to be exact. Although I am not the most prolific of bloggers, I’ve been doing pretty well for the past couple of years, so this was a long hiatus for moi.

For 2 reasons, mainly.

Reason #1 – this last month of work has been waaaay more draining than I had anticipated. My successor took over officially on December 16th, and I’ve been very focused on giving her a smooth start (by performing some unpleasant tasks that needed doing, so she didn’t have to deal with them); and trying to organize/categorize/put into words all of the things that are the Lab Manager’s responsibility and that I have to deal with on any given day. Her comment on the first day of the job: “Wow, here I am dealing with at least 7 time-critical things at the same time.” Only 7? You’ll get used to it…hehehe!

I’ve been so involved with a successful handover that it’s infiltrating my dreams. A few days ago I woke up terribly tired because it seemed like all night I was going through my computer files in my sleep – finding an apparently vital statistics spreadsheet that I’d been keeping and needed to remember to share with the new Lab Manager. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember what this damned important file was all about so I figured my anxious brain just made it up for my dream.

The point is: I’ve been coming home exhausted and needing my free time to decompress, unwind and recover/restore myself for the next day/week.

Reason #2 – not feeling the Christmas at all this year. Could be related to Reason #1, but I don’t think so. I’ve fallen out of love with Christmas for many years and many reasons. But this season it was especially severe.

For the first year ever, I didn’t put up a tree. Even though I probably should have if only because it would have given me an opportunity to sort through my Christmas decor bin, prior to my mid-year move to the West Coast. No tree or other decor, no Christmas cards or letter to friends – no nothing.

So this kept me off the blog because who needs to listen to me rant about how I was am feeling like Christianity is the one of the biggest hammers in the Patriarchy toolbox and other such angelic thoughts as I have been having this month…HAH! Especially at one of the most celebratory times of the year, for most people, regardless of religious leaning. Consider it a public service that I’ve kept quiet. 😉

However, I have enjoyed living vicariously through other bloggers I follow as they posted about their Decembers, and their celebrations with family and friends, and tried to keep my bitter thoughts to myself. As one should.

I did take some time out to celebrate the winter solstice, despite everything else going on in my life and my mind. A reflective and solitary celebration of my gratitude for my life and for the natural world that hosts me – welcoming the longest night, and then the rising sun the next morning.

Welcoming back the light on December 22, from my kitchen window. The beginning of actual winter – the time of dreaming – and of beginning a new year and new life.

In closing this last post of mine for 2019, I’m going to take a moment to also thank YOU – all of the readers of ye olde blogge for being “here” for me. For taking the time to read and comment; for your encouragement and humour; for your insights and oh-so kind words. I do love this community so, and can’t wait to keep interacting with you all in the coming year when I will have much more time to do so!

Rock on,

The WB