I’m currently going through the weird and disorienting transition of starting to think of myself as an author instead of a writer. With blogs and articles coming out, I don’t merely write for myself anymore, I’ve been properly and honestly published — albeit in the smallest scale. By definition, that makes me an author, though not yet a novelist.
The word “author” has a certain weight to it. One could even call it a cultural institution, and there are still those who believe there needs to be gatekeepers to prevent mere amateurs from sullying the word. It’s a constant inner struggle I’ve lived with for weeks. I’m getting paid to do this. People are taking my work seriously, but there is no fanfare, no diploma in authorship — just me and the paper, me and the words people are willing to pay.
Is a person only a true author when they qualify for awards, for unions and media attention? I don’t know, and the unknowing is what terrifies me. Mine is a world of words, but words can’t help me today.
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Is a person an author only truly at the moment someone else believes they are?