Tag Archives: writer

The Common Question on Blogging: Profession or Pastime?

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Do you consider yourself a “professional” blogger? Why or why not? What does that mean to you?

Many define the act of being a professional as “one who receives payment for the work they produce”, but the definition, according to Google, our lovely and highly-reliable search engine, defines “blogging” as “having or showing the skill appropriate to a professional person; competent or skillful”. I don’t believe that you have to receive your primary source of income from something in order to be leaning more toward profession. Am I skillful? I would like to think so. I’ve been told I’m skillful, and I do consider myself a jack of many trades. I would also go as far as to say that I invest a tremendous chunk of my time and energy toward this particular journey in my life, so I personally do consider my writing and blogging as somewhat of a profession. I feel that, in an idealistic world, there’d be about 10 extra hours each day for me to put forth toward this long-term project and that I would bring in at least some pocket change when I’ve fully established myself, but I know and accept the fact that building that kind of literary empire and being able to create a community among my readers is easier said than done and will take plenty more years to establish. I am in no rush to develop my skills and expand my audience to a more diverse range, nor am I discouraged by the bumps I’ve run into along the way. Writing takes time and patience, just like many of the things we’ve learned to do. Learning a language takes time, riding a bike takes practice. Many of the abilities we possess today were not “second nature” from the start, and I believe that blogging is no different. It takes passion, determination, and the ability to accept failure. Yes, there will be failure at times. In the beginning of this journey, I couldn’t help feeling discouraged by the lack of an audience. I felt like I was writing in an empty room. No feedback. It was me, myself, and I. But I’ve become more skillful at exhibiting my work, about my marketing my abilities, and about growing what I believe to be a little sub-community within the blogging community. I probably spend about 5-6 hours a day working toward improving my writing and my blog, whether through editing, marketing, sharing, or interacting. Even though I consider myself a professional when it comes to my work, I consider this also to be a major pastime. I believe that my love for creating and exploring has brought me to writing and that desire has kept me going strong from the founding of my blog to its current state. I don’t see this as a struggle or a chore. It’s an effective exploration of myself, and regardless of whether I define it as a profession or a pastime, it’s a major chunk of who I am today and the milestones I hope to reach in my future.

How do you define yourself as a blogger?

Leave a comment below!



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Daily Writing Prompt: Start a story/excerpt beginning with the following: “The last time I saw her, she…”

Listening to:

“I Want You So Bad I Can’t Breathe” by OK Go

“You And Only You” by We the Kings

“She Keeps Me Warm” by Mary Lambert

“The last time I saw her, she…” had her ruby hair pulled back in a messy bun, little strands poking out in all directions. I had always called it her fireworks hair, which made her laugh that sweet laugh of hers… Her calm, green eyes were focused intently on the laptop screen in front of her, working through the details of her latest novel, her pride and joy, her bare feet tapping, dancing to the beat of a new vinyl she’d been dying to show me. I could feel myself smiling at the thought of her excitement when she wrote, the twitches in her face as she concentrated. She was so beautiful then. So vibrant in her personality, an appreciative and gentle soul with a free spirit. Often I wondered if she were the reason the world was so colorful, as everything she touched came to life, rejuvenated with vigor. Her eyes caught mine, and they returned my smile above the screen. I arose from the couch across from her, her “oldie but goodie” leather couch she refused to let go of, eager to hold her, eager to wrap her in my arms and tell her that having her heart keeps mine beating. So proud of her, my beautiful girl, the love of my life, for all she is. As I reached out my hand toward her, I found her chair cold. In a panic, I felt myself grabbing the chair, my hands frantically searching it for my love. I closed my eyes tightly, my hands rising to my eyes, and fell to my knees at the foot of the desk she had so often wrote upon. Each morning, coffee in hand, she was there long before I was even awake….all for granted, how she was there to greet me with a coffee of my own…. How I could wake when I did, selfishly, and not spend every waking moment… how I slept without realizing I was wasting time…All this precious time, gone. Wetness, tears flowing uncontrollably down my cheeks. My face felt sticky and hot in my stress. It had to have been a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. She was here. Holding my heart, kissing every inch of my face, just yesterday. I can feel myself shaking….The ceiling is going to collapse on me, bury me in this ruin I had made for myself…Was it yesterday? Her rug is here under my knees….Wait, where is she? When was she here? Her perfume lingers in the mahogany of our furniture….When did I feel the heat of her palms against my cheeks? Each tear burned more than the last as they flooded my lips. Had my love……given up on me, on her life and mine? Was she ever there…at all? Was she just a cruel dream?