I've been staring at the words "author" for ten minutes, mulling over what that means.
For example, are you an author when you tweet? When you create a protest sign with a few choice words on it? How many words - or what words - can you use before you are officially dubbed an "author"?
A part of me wonders if it comes down to your identity. Do you recognise yourself as an author, even if you've only penned a few sentences? Is it something nobody else can dictate but you?
Dictionary.com describes an author as:
'a person who writes a novel, poem, essay, etc.; the composer of a literary work, as distinguished from a compiler, translator, editor, or copyist.'
However, it also says an author is 'a maker of anything; creator; [or] originator.'
The maker of anything.
That's a huge generalisation.
Perhaps my theory is true then - if you write something, big or little, you can call yourself an author.
That of course, takes me to my next train of thought. Must you love what you write? Or at least, love that you DO write? I ask these questions of myself and my love-hate relationship with writing. I don't know if I can (or if I want to) call myself an author when our relationship has been that of jilted partners. One day scrambling to tear each others' clothes off in a desperate frenzy to be together; the next, internally cursing the other for how far apart we've grown in spite of everything we've been through. We're consistently drawn to one another. I can't let it go, no matter how much time passes. And yet, our paths refuse to align.
[Side note: I need to get out of this metaphor, because I keep wanting to rhyme and the cheesiness is driving me insane haha]
I have to wonder if my confusion is justified. Yes, I went through an absolute shitfest with She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named. But that was over two years ago. When do you 'suck it up and let it go,' so to speak? Am I using her as an excuse to forgo writing about the things I always used to love? Or have I simply outgrown what I used to write about and the time has come to leave the past in the past? Am I focusing far too much on what was lost, and ignoring what could be?
This horrible pit of jealousy starts to stir in my belly when I think of the She-Devil and what she gained from my unwavering loyalty. I'm also ashamed to admit that I envy Erin and Tiff and Lil and Josh for being able to move on seemingly easier than I have been able to. What kind of person does that make me? How can I call myself an author, or a writer, or simply a lover of literature, entertainment and pop culture if I can't forgive her? If I can't look at my friends and feel excited that they're doing incredibly well?
I am at a loss.
Who am I? Where am I going? What's ahead for me?
These are the questions that everyone asks for themselves. But for me, I know the greatest question in my mind is:
Am I an author?