Over five years ago I started my first blog and dedicated it to my then passion, beading, and virtually everything else in my life. I have always been a writer but never before had I put so much time into it. The results were wonderful for me.
I found an amazing hobby photographer in North Carolina,a hiker in Scotland learning to cope with a debilitating breathing disease, an accomplished birder in Vancouver and my own burgeoning writer-daughter in Victoria. And many more. I posted and read others’ blogs almost every day.
The thrill of reading my own words back had me hooked, but soon enough I wanted more. I admit it. Wonderful comments fanned my vanity; full of confidence I decided to write bigger and, hopefully, better. My historical novel was born. A year later, after much study and research and tripping about New York State, I had my first draft.
Now I look back from this vantage point and thank the blogging. If I had not found again my joy in writing, through blogging, my novel might never have happened. Nor my enormous learning journey.
And so my friend’s thoughtless disparaging comments about blogs and never reading them rankle, but don’t really bite. She just can’t know what the act of writing means to me: my blog has led me to write an historical, to plan the second in the series, to create this blog dedicated to writing, and to muse about a memoir. Oh, and to write a storybook for my grandchildren last Christmas.
All of this, along with countless trips to libraries, forts, historical reenactments, writing courses, critique groups, and conferences have made for an amazing four years. Oh, I’ve fallen into the creek a few times and wrenched my ankle along the way, but always I’ve just pulled myself out and got back to the writing. And that’s pretty real.