I was never willing to call myself an author before I’d written and published my first book. It wasn’t the feat of having written it that made me feel like I’d earned my stripes. It wasn’t the sense of accomplishment I felt when I hit “publish.” And it wasn’t making the announcement to my loved ones, either.
When you’re a creative, your friends’ and family’s opinions don’t count. I’m not devaluing the importance of their encouragement and support. But unless you have a family member or friend who’s honest enough to tell you flat-out when you’re doing something that stinks, and who can give you the reasons why it stinks so you can improve, their opinions about your skill level will always be biased.
What made me believe I’d finally crossed the threshold of authorship was the moment after I had pressed that fateful button, when I was finally forced to endure the inevitable silence that followed. Knowing that my work was now available to be scrutinized by the thousands of people who could say whatever they wanted about it without having to worry whether I’d still like them afterward was what made the difference for me.
It’s one thing to write; it’s quite another to share what you’ve written with others. A great work of fiction isn’t just a string of proficiently-written sentences. It’s not just a good story, vivid detail, or compelling characters. A great story is all those things, but I believe it’s also something that evokes the intangible within us. It’s when you get to the end of the last page and the story has made you feel something. In my mind, a story can accomplish nothing greater.
I may never write a great story. I may have written one already, or it might be the one I’m working on as I type this. It might be a while yet before I’m good enough to have a chance. But whatever may come, this is the start of my progress toward that goal.