Just a Pretender?

Who am I?, I wrote on a notepad last week. I have one strategically placed in each room just in case. Am I really a writer if most of what I’ve done recently is repackage the work of others, (with clear credits), editorialize for my tiny group of followers, hope to get just one to pay attention and vote?

Let me back up and start with the first question. I am Kara, named after the Greek word for joy, not the Kara Sea north of Siberia, and I’m a Taurus.

I recently labeled myself as “Rabid Dabbler in Bilderfassung of Himmel, Blumen, Wasser and Schlafenden Gelben Hunden”, referring to my interest in hobby photography, but I also dabble with writing on the interwebs, about dogs, traveling, and traveling with dogs. Sometimes my friends say I should be a writer. It does run in my family, and I do like being silly with words, even making them up if the spirit moves me.

I'm not sure if my writing stinks like the gift from my old dog last week when I was too slow to listen to the little voice clopping down the cobblestone path of my mind, compelling me to take him outside. Maybe I'm just a Pretender. But if I was, would my walls be papered with quirky observations and snippets such as “poopy paradox” and “pre-fight loin girding”?

Misinterpreting Prince Hamlet, in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”, 

“To be, or not to be . . .”

Maybe I already am.