Can I call myself an author? What are the requirements for claiming that title?
It’s a question that’s been bouncing around in my brain since I first began seriously writing on May 22, 2018. Back then, it felt strange to devote so much time to traveling down this unexpected fork in my life’s road. It’s been exciting and satisfying, but what did that make me? At what point can I say with any confidence that I’m an author?
Speaking of brains, suppose I’d worked at becoming a brain surgeon. I’d finished all the schooling required, performed all the residency requirements, took and passed every test thrown at me, got accepted to a hospital position and all the right associations…but I sat at home and watched cartoons. Never picked up a scalpel, or whatever a brain surgeon uses. Nope, just watched cartoons. And drank whiskey.
I wonder if I could I still call myself a brain surgeon. Would there be a requirement that I must be a practicing, successful brain surgeon? Or had I already done enough to lock in the job description?
Maybe I’d seen enough. Or too much. Perhaps the whole idea of operating on a brain saddened and terrified me, because I knew I couldn’t understand completely what I was doing when I was poking around in there, hoping for the best. Not even understanding what a brain is.
And who could? Do any of us truly believe that a lump of tissue with nerves and blood vessels and God know what else running through it can be where our spirits and personalities reside? How could that blob make us who we are?
Okay, I’m digressing. It’s too easy to wander off to examine a topic that catches my interest. Back to being an author. That’s what this article is about.
My take is that yes, I’d still be considered a brain surgeon, and I could proudly, honestly print that title on a business card. Or an operating room door. It doesn’t matter that I’m more likely to have in my hand a whiskey bottle rather than a scalpel, and my continuing education consists mostly of watching and laughing at odd animated characters living outrageous adventures.
So is that the case with an author too? Is there some standard for a certain level of output, or a measurable quantity of success, before I could call myself an author? Really, I might never sell more than a couple of books. To strangers, that is. Family and friends are easily shamed into it. But a stay-at-home mom in Oklahoma, who has never heard of me? Selling a book to her is something different altogether. Or a college student in Tokyo? How about a bored oligarch in Russia, or…well, you get the idea.
I’ve published one book of fiction, mostly completed the second, and I’ve begun the third. I also have definite ideas for the fourth and fifth. In fact, I recently lost sleep imagining a scene for Book Four. In my mind, I’m an author. I may never reach into Oklahoma, or Japan, or Russia with my writing, but still…I AM an author.
Now that I’ve established that, allow me to tear it down. I like the title “Author,” and I’m definitely putting in the effort and long hours. No cartoons here. Maybe a little bit of whiskey occasionally…
Since I write fiction, let me throw out another possible title: “Liar.” Everything I write is made up, mostly out of nothing. I sometimes use pieces of my life experiences, weaving them in and out of a storyline, but what’s written on those pages has never happened. I’m telling stories. Tall tales. Lies…all of it.
So I’m a liar. If I do my job well, if all the pieces fit together perfectly, and there’s nothing anyone can point to and say, “Hey, she only had her purse…where did that bazooka come from?!” then I’m a good liar.
And if I do somehow inspire strangers from Oklahoma to Russia, and everywhere in between, to buy the books – and they like them – what does that make me? A professional liar.
Have you ever seen that title on a business card? Professional Liar. It has a nice ring to it. It’s not seedy, like “Liar For Hire.” That might imply a distinct lack of ethics and morals. Or “Liar With Bad Intent.” No ill will here – I’m hoping to provide some entertainment, and maybe pay the bills, not to malign or slander anyone.
Consistent lying is a big part of writing a novel. At least it has been for me. After completing the first draft of “Lin Finity And Her Mayhem Rising,” I congratulated myself for finishing it. That’s a lot of lies to make up. And then the serious work began. Reading it again, and again – over and over. Going “back in time” to get the details to match up. To make sure nothing’s out of place. Can’t have bazookas appearing out of nowhere. Am I giving away the story? Not really – no bazookas in Book One.
Imagine that you’ve just told a whopper to someone, and it’s important that they believe it. Two days later, you realize a detail in that whopper didn’t match exactly some other lie you’d told a week earlier. You ask God politely, “Please, let me go back and change that story!” You get your wish, the earlier story is changed, and all is good. Then…you remember that a lie you’d told a month earlier didn’t really match with the next two stories. So you beg God to send you back. You go, you fix it, and no one ever discovers your lie. All the pieces fit.
What does that make you? A liar. A good one.
And an author. You’re ready to start your first novel.