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NaBloPoMo Daily prompt: Do I consider myself a “professional” blogger?

My day is busy and my inspiration wanes, so the Daily Prompt it is.

This seems like a no-brainer. Do I receive compensation for my blogging or even my writing for that matter? No. Therefore, I am not a professional blogger. Professional typically means having achieved paid status for your work.

However, I do see another definition in Webster’s where it just indicates mastery or skill:

3.a thoroughly professional performanceexpertaccomplishedskillfulmasterly,masterfulfinepolishedskilledproficientcompetentableexperienced,practicedtrainedseasonedbusinesslikedeftinformal acecracktop-notch.ANTONYMS amateurish.

Using this definition of professional, I would have to say….No…still, no. Not a professional.

I have one page, very few widgets, not quite sure how the categories work, and sometimes my pictures don’t even show up right. I see other blogs with fancy banners, and side boxes, and multiple pages organized by topic. I aspire to these things, but am not there yet.

The purpose of my blog is to write and practice writing. If anyone reads it, or I eventually get paid for it, that is just bonus.

 
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Posted by on November 6, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Pleasures of life

I linger 

under the covers, feeling the warmth and safety of my bed

over a cup of coffee each morning, preparing for the demands of the day

over a glass of wine with my beloved, savoring each moment together

over my baby’s crib, watching her breath and smelling her sweet scent

over a book, enthralled with character and story, unaware of time passing

over a sunset, enjoying the beauty of creation

in the sun-warmed sand on a salty beach

in the arms of my beloved

I linger.

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Daily Prompt: Linger

 

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Stories: From the Outside Looking in

Sometimes when I am traveling and lost in my thoughts I look in the windows of passing houses and cars and think, ‘There are people in there I do not and probably will never know, living lives that I know nothing about.’ It is a humbling thought about my small place in the universe and the many strangers who occupy it living mundane or possibly fascinating lives. There is a curious part of me that wants to know them. To know what is going on behind the brightly lit window. Is it a happy family just sitting down to dinner? Or a family torn apart by tragedy wondering if they will ever smile again.

The man driving the car next to me while his wife rests her head against the window: who is he? Have they had a long trip or is she weighed down with weariness? I wonder what the anchor tattoo on his shoulder means and when and where he got it.

If I had one superpower, it would be to look into a person’s eyes and know their life’s story. Maybe I’m too curious for my own good; I suppose some would call it nosy. Maybe it is my love of story and wanting to know where people are coming from and what makes them who they are.

There are billions of people on this planet with their own lives and fascinating stories. Every once in a while we hear about one of them through an uplifting or tragic news piece. It is just a blip on the continuum of time and then we go about our business returning to the rhythm of our ordinary days. As I pass by the windows, my imagination takes over and creates the story of the family who lives there or the destination of the car beside me.

I imagine the man with the anchor tattoo celebrating with his former Navy buddies when Seal Team 6 took out Bin Laden. In their revelry they agree to matching tattoos. Right now he and his wife are on their way to the graduation of their oldest son from the Naval Academy. She is reminiscing about her boy’s childhood and wondering how they got here so fast as she rests her head against the window.

I imagine an elderly couple in the 1940’s bungalow we just passed. She is slowly clearing rose patterned dishes from the table while he sips his coffee from a dainty chipped cup: the last remaining piece of their wedding china. She joins him at the table as they comfortably chat about news of the kids and grandkids.

I have no way of knowing if these stories are true. The characters don’t even know I exist. I am merely someone passing by in the car. An outsider.

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Daily Prompt: The Outsiders

 
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Posted by on January 9, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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