About one month ago I was honoured by a request to swap blogs. I say honoured because the request or invitation came from Scott Bury, no less. I met Scott Bury in Twitter, following the recommendation of some good fellow writers, and I discovered that Scott is a person that can be very helpful for all those people who, just like me, want to become good writers. He offers tips and advice about the better way to become a good writer. His blog Written Words is one of my favourite ones, and I visit at least once a week to read good stuff about writing. His book The Bones of the Earth is in my Kindle, waiting for its turn to be read, and I have to say that I am impatient for its turn to come. The book has many good reviews, so I am quite looking forward to read it.

I wrote for him a post in which I talk about the good and bad things that I do as a writer. You can read it in his blog, mentioned above. In exchange, he sent me a wonderful post about a very important question, a question that not many people know how to answer, or a question that not many people has even considered. Thank you, Scott, for becoming part of my blog experience. Without more preambles, enjoy this excellent post by great author Scott Bury.
------------------------------o-----------------------------------                       What is a writer?

 I began enjoying Cinta García’s blog about a month ago, after I was alerted to it by her Twitter feed and some praise from other writers. Eventually, I invited her to swap guest blog posts with me. I asked her “what are the best thing and the worst thing you’ve done as a writer?” And in response to her question, I’m describing what I think it means to be a writer.

It’s simple. A writer is someone who writes. Cinta, I think, realized that as she was writing her guest post for my blog. She says she never thought of herself as a writer, even though she writes a blog and some very funny absurdist stories, suitable for children or other people with a sense of humour. Now, however, she understands: if you want to call yourself a writer, you have to write.

She’s not the only one to say so: Chuck Wendig of the Terrible Minds blog quite brutally states there’s no such thing as an “aspiring writer.” Writers write. If you don’t write, you’re not a writer.

To me, it doesn’t matter whether someone else publishes your words. It doesn’t matter if you write fiction or journalism or history or self-help. And it doesn’t matter whether you get paid for it or not. If you write down words and somehow, someone else can read them, you are a writer.

There are many writers who are not recognized by the traditional, legacy publishers—not just the “Big 6,” but also hundreds of smaller and mid-sized businesses who are chasing that vanishing profit margin in print books. But I recognize the talent of writers like RS Guthrie, Alan McDermott, Kathy Lynn Hall, Bert Carson, Jo VonBargen, James Wallace Birch, David Mark Brown, Russell Blake, David Mark Brown, Andy Holloman, Will Granger ... and Cinta García. There are far too many to list.

While some betray varying degrees of skill and command of English grammar and rules, they all have the talent to tell stories and keep an audience’s attention. They’ve all imposed the self-discipline to craft a story, essay, report, poem or novel. What’s more, they’ve all taken the brave step of bringing it out to the world, and are willing to take the criticism, invective, lunacy and occasionally praise that will come their way as a result. In fact, they ask for it.

All writers do. It’s just part of the job.

Somehow, I have fallen within the attention circle (if I can coin a term) of this group. I can’t tell you how proud and inspired I feel when I find my name or my blog mentioned by one of these people.


To answer Cinta’s question: why do I write? Like her, I need to.

I have been a professional writer for close to 30 years now. I recently published my first novel, The Bones of the Earth, but it’s far from being the first fiction I ever wrote. And I’ve been blogging at Written Words for years (although I admit that I’ve only gotten around to blogging regularly in the past 10 or 12 months).

Why do I write fiction? Because I want to tell stories that have not been written before. Sure, the themes are universal: boy meets girl, kill the king, fish out of water revenge, you know the rest. But I like to think that my fiction tells these stories in new combinations and new ways that have not been written before.

Do I succeed? I’ve succeeded in putting a novel together. I’ve succeeded in the mechanical part of publishing it in e-book form, and my proof should be arriving from CreateSpace soon.

I’ve also published some shorter material, and succeeded in the mechanics of e-publishing, too.

And I’ve succeeded to the extent that that few people who have read these works so far tell me they like them. I have not heard or read any negative reviews, yet. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough.

The thing that makes me most feel successful about my writing happens when a reader shows me that they really get the story, so when a reader mentions my main character’s social awkwardness or the historical aspects of the story, I feel great.

I doubt that I’ll ever get rich from my stories, but the stories, themselves, are the real reason I write.

Saint Valentine's Day. Yes, it is that time of the year again. The time when people start feeling more romantic than the rest of the year. The time so much desired by chocolate makers :P Yeah, this Valentine Day I am single, so, please, allow me being a bit ironic. Now seriously, it is a lovely time of the year, but I really wish that we could extend the loving feeling to the rest of the year. Showing love for others should be done on a daily basis, not only on February 14th. Share the love, spread smiles, be kind, and say I LOVE YOU at least once a day. You will feel wonderfully well at the end of the day.
Now for this post. When Rob Guthrie suggested me that we could swap blogs, I felt completely happy and honoured. And when we started talking about it and we agreed to do it on Valentine's Day, I really felt very excited. For people that normally read my stories, they already know that I write about love sometimes. But I felt really curious about what a thriller author could write about the topic. Being Rob, I was sure that it was going to be something superb. I have written a kind of story for his blog. You can read it in his blog Rob on Writing. In exchange, he has written a poem for my blog. Yes, a poem!!!Rob Guthrie is the fantastic author of Black Beast and LOST, both thrillers belonging to the series of Macaulay Clan novels. He is the creator of the incredible Detective Bobby Mac. You don't want to miss his books. I will just add that he is as wonderful a friend and person as he is a superb writer. I feel humbled that he is sharing some romantic writings with all of us through my blog. This piece of writing came naturally in poem form, as it is the most used form to express love feelings. Neither of us can avoid being drawn to use poetic language when talking about love, so it is normal that Rob ended up writing such a lovely piece. So enjoy this post as much as I enjoyed sharing these feeling with all of you. Thank you, Rob, and in the most Austenesque style I have to say to you that "I feel much obliged to you for being so kind as to write this delightful poem for us" while curtseying graciously before your wonderful art.
By R.S. Guthrie
Lost, then found.
As went our hearts,
So then, too, our souls.
Cautious at first, yes,
But exciting, those trepidations.
Thoughts of the future
So new; unencumbered
By the hurt and silence
Of the past.Together, forever.
Not often do two hearts
Find matching souls.
When ours met,
Complacent, yet
Yearning for something more,
Wanting, needing, dreaming
That old dream; unfulfilled
By the waking past.Laughter, we shared;
Love came naturally.
Your smile felt warm
My hand on yours
Preordained.Secrets were made,
Friendship came naturally.
The heat in your beating heart
Because of me;
The magic in my voice
Because of you.Two peas
One mold
Joined hearts
Shared soul

Neither needed more
Nor ever promised less;
Perfectly in love.

So why, then…

Why did you leave?