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I said it.

It bears repetition.


I’ve long known it and can’t explain why I’ve denied this fact to myself and others.

Was I embarrassed about my efforts?

Worse, was I whining, and sniffling, hoping for approval and being told how wonderful my efforts were?

That’s all behind me now. I’ve confessed, made my peace and done penance. (As in writing this piece.)

I’ve always loved writing. Kinder-garden through high school. Best encouragement came from a favorite teacher who wrote, in the top left-hand corner of my notebook,

“Hitch your wagon to a star.”

Life meandered through my early twenties.

My day job was in travel.

My dream job was to be a writer.

Always a ferocious reader of anything and everything, I researched the market and decided Romance was the way to go.

I took courses. Went to conventions. Listened to successful authors. Practiced what they preached.

  • Plotted outlines. (Easy. I have a fertile imagination.)

  • Created characters. (Loved it. I knew so many people to draw from.)

  • Dialogue. (Fun, fun, fun. The back and forth. The innuendoes.)

  • Made huge white boards, planning chapters in detail. (Now I was starting to do real work.)

  • Learned that if my novel sagged midway through, a sure fix was to introduce a new character. (Did so.)

  • Narrative and description took some work. (English being my second language.)

Then came the elephant in the room. A huge problem for me. A three-letter word.


Writing about sex was totally beyond my powers of description.

I tried. How I tried. I read. And read. And read some more. I mentally placed myself in the situation and tried to act in out in my mind.

And either ended up bent over in laughter or cringing in embarrassment.

It was not going to happen.

I’m no prude. After all, I’m a flower child of the sixties but writing about sex?


I had my first and only ever panic attack as I sat one day, furiously trying to think “sex.” I thought I was having a heart attack.

I leapt up. Rushed to get some tea. Gulped down two cups.

My heart rate finally settled. I decided the real thing was much less hazardous to my health than the imaginary version.

And more pleasurable.

Still I soldiered on. Thought it out. Wrote it out. Read it out aloud. Even to my kind, nonjudgmental ears it sounded stilted.

But it was the best I could do.

Synopsis and cover letter done, my baby started its journey.

Rejection followed rejection.

Until one day, one glorious day, an editor asked to see the whole manuscript.

Oh, Happy Days.

Oh, Winged Feet.

Oh, Lightened Step.

She wanted rewrites in a few places.

I did it.

Sent it back.

It was accepted!

I didn’t sleep that night.

I’d arrived! I was a writer! Being published was around the corner, a mere technicality!

Then another letter arrived. There was a new editor. She wasn’t sure. Wanted something that sounded like a total rewrite of the book.

I bailed. I was sick to death of Penny and Morgan their damned romance.

As Press and PR person for a major airline, I was writing articles. For the inhouse publication. For other publications.

And worked on my dream.

I transitioned to a career in the Cruise Industry.

And worked on my dream.

I retired from the Corporate World. Started a career in Fitness.

And worked on my dream.

Another novel was born. Submitted. A lovely letter came back. They loved my writing but had just published something similar. Could I please write them something else?


I didn’t have what it took to write a novel.

I made my peace with that.

Blogging was born.

For reasons I cannot explain, except that it sounds unmusical, I intensely dislike the word BLOG.

I went to find its origin and came across the following:

“The term “weblog” was coined by Jorn Barger on 17 December 1997. The short form “blog” was coined by Peter Merholz who jokingly broke the word weblog into the phrase we blog in the sidebar of his blog.”

I don’t want to be known as a blogger I want to be known as a writer.

I’m unpublished as a novelist.

Does that make me less of a writer?

I can craft short articles. Share my life.

And there are people who like to read short articles or posts or blogs. Whatever one cares to call it.

I found a whole new circle of like-minded people whose writing I follow. Some even follow mine.

But in some weird way I still feel it demeans our craft to refer to our writing as blogging.

Being called a Blogger instead of a Writer is like being Cinderella.

However, look what happened to her!

Cyber Hugs and Blessings All. Keep dreaming. Keep writing.


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