I am not a blogger

Deceiving yes as you're on a blog website. However I am not a blogger. (What is a blogger anyhow?) I am, however, a writer. No, I don't have any tips to make your skin complexion brighter, actually apple cider vinegar works great for that. No, I don't have any healthy recipes to share, but I did find a Keto buffalo chicken dip recipe the other day that is bomb. No, I don't have any wisdom to part on you, but know you miss 100% of the shots you don't take.

I'm just a writer. I wrote a book with my dad and I eagerly await as it's being pitched to publishers. A few have passed and a few have said they were interested. Then passed. Yet, I stay cautiously optimistic as I am told that a few editors are still reading our book proposal carefully, and with the utmost enjoyment, or at least I like to pretend that they are.

Writing a book is hard. And my dad and I decided to not make it any easier for ourselves as we decided to write it together. We first started off with my dad just writing and then I would give edits. He would write and then I would comment. Then he would take my comments and add and fix appropriately and then I would comment again. We repeated this process for about 2 years until guilt really started to seep in. Was I really contributing to the story? I finally charged myself and declared on the phone to my dad and literary agent, "I could take a stab at writing the edits."

Painstakingly, I cracked open my laptop and stared at the word document my dad created that illustrated my grandparents' story, (Oh ya, our book is about my Grandfather and Grandmother and their war experience and love story during WWII but we can talk about that in more detail another day), and thought "there is no way I can do this." So I took a deep breath...

...drank some water, got up and ate some lunch because you can't write on an empty stomach, went to the gym because now I was full and need to expend the energy I just consumed, took a shower because I was sweaty and gross, got changed into comfy clothes, and then it was 5 o'clock and my husband was coming home and it was time to make dinner.

And that's how the first few days went before I yelled at myself and forced myself to sit down and write. Just write something. Anything. Don't judge it. So, as I clacked my nails against my MacBook Pro keyboard, I wrote a sentence. Then two. Until I filled up 25 pages. I mean it wasn't in the first day, it took a few days, but finally I did it. Then I wrote another chapter and the next and the next.

Writing a book is hard. I realized not believing in my own capabilities is a lot easier. But not worth it.

So no, I am not a blogger. I'm a writer.