wondering, is blogging really writing?

I've been writing online for nearly 20 years now, which is hard to believe.  I have a 23 year old diploma that indicates I have a degree in English that sits, gathering dust, in my basement.  And now, as I'm working on my first book, I've been in a cerebral battle with myself as I say "I'm not a writer."

I'm a real estate agent, a mom, a wife, an amateur chef, a former piano teacher, a blogger, a fill-in-the-blank with anything except a "real" writer.

Except that is bullshit.  I'm a writer.  And I'm developing my craft.  I'm a long way from the great authors that line my bookshelves in my basement writing nook.  I'm probably even a long way from some of the crappy ones that I can't force myself to throw away.

Thanks to my first ever creative writing class at Lighthouse Writers Workshop I'm developing a writing practice, I'm finding my voice, and my character's voices.  My current book project is a piece of historical fiction based upon the true story of my Grandmother's life during WWII and her correspondence with several American soldiers around the globe while she worked stateside at a POW camp.   My great struggle right now is how to convert these fifty+ love letters, plus the letters from German prisoners once they were released when the war ended, into a cohesive framework and tell this fascinating story in such a way that both honors the my grandmother and entertains the audience.

For now, here's a poem we were encouraged to write for class with the simple writing prompt: where are you from?  It's not a perfect poem.  I'm not a poet.  I'm just a writer, playing around with words, but in order to hone my craft, I need to become more vulnerable to sharing my writing that isn't just blogging.

Photo by Rick Myers (a.k.a. my dad)

Home

I am from tumbleweeds and sandhills that are all sand with no ocean in sight.

I am from wind that howls and afternoon thunderstorms that might bring tornadoes you can chase.

I am from backyard gardens with tomatoes so juicy your mouth waters just to think of the 
crisp, sun-ripened flesh.

I am from summer reading programs, mosquito bites, carnivals, county fairs, and swimming pools.

I am from sunburns, freckled and somehow still pale even after hours outside under the blazing sun.

I am from sharp whistles from dad that indicate it’s time to come home.  I am from scraped knees and bike races,

from tree houses and ice cream trucks.

If “Cheers” were a town, I am from it.  Everyone knows my name.

I am the daughter of, I am the granddaughter of, I am “of”.

I am from the place that all of the generations before me are from and no generations after me will be.  

I am from the sickly sweet aroma of sugar beets and manure.  

I am from a place that “smells like money” with a mostly shuttered main street.  

I am from a place that isn’t quite Wyoming, where bright red N’s are painted neatly on the garages 
but the trim on the gutters is often peeling.

I am from inconvenient train tracks carrying dark coal east and screaming home to the west to get more.  

I am from cabbage burgers, donut shops, and beans and rice.  I am from the land of "remember whens".

I am from lush purple lilac bushes and locusts singing from the trees.   

I am from a place with so few people and so many connections.