A Writer, Not a Blogger

I’ve been a writer my entire life. The very word—writer—was the first word I used to describe myself.  I was in third grade, in Madison Alabama, and my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her I was a writer. Not that I wanted to be a writer, but I that I already was.

A few weeks after that I won a writing contest against people twice my age. I still have the ribbon.

I’m a writer.

I’m also a mother, a homeschool educator (I hesitate to call myself a teacher), and a litany of other quasi-important things.  Being as I can quite capably string words into coherent sentences one would think I could add blogger to that list.

I cannot.

Writing about myself requires a touch of something that I just can’t grab. Maybe I’m too southern? I’ve been raised in a conservative culture where talking about yourself is considered just plain rude (and we say it just like that). I recently signed a publishing contract, who knew that in doing so I’d be writing about myself … a lot.

I’d much rather write about imaginary people having adventures I could only dream about.

So, this is my first blog post.

I have blogged.

I am a blogger.

Just kidding, I’m not. But, I’m going to do my best to fake my way through this. Maybe, just maybe … someone might read it. I’ll throw in anecdotes about educating my gifted nine-year-old son.  Which in itself has been an epic adventure I never intended on taking. As well as glimpses into the voices in my head and their stories.




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