I recently stumbled upon an online discussion regarding the definition of the word “author.” Someone asked when it is that a writer becomes an author.
One of the participants in the conversation pointed out that fixing a plumbing problem doesn’t mean you’re a plumber. Preparing a meal doesn’t make you a chef. Working on your car doesn’t mean you are a mechanic, and so forth.
This person went on to say that self-publishing a book doesn’t make you an author.
It made me wonder if anyone in the discussion group had owned a deck of Authors playing cards when they were growing up.
If so, this is where they saw pictures of Mark Twain, Louisa May Alcott, and eleven additional famous authors. This is where they learned the titles of many famous books.
I remember looking at those cards as a child and thinking you had to be old to be an author. I had no plans of becoming old anytime soon. Certainly I would never become an author; I simply didn’t fit the profile.
Then this writing thing happened to me – when I got older. If it weren’t for my parents’ estate, my younger brother Stevie, and a mother who encouraged her children to write, I would not be writing. And thus I would not be wondering when it is that someone becomes an author.
If you think about it, writers make something out of nothing. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say they make something out of twenty-six letters. They simply need to arrange the letters in ways that people enjoy.
When the fishing magazine arrives at our house, I know the letters are lined up in a way that will keep my husband’s attention.
It’s fascinating to me that fishermen know how to pull a fish out of a body of water. They know what kind of equipment they need. They know when the fish may be biting. They know, and they know, and they know.
I, on the other hand, know very little about fishing. I know fishermen will get out of bed at a very early hour to head out for the day. I know a fishing trip is a vacation for them. I know they’ll end up with a few fishing stories to tell. It’s safe to say they are fishermen.
Perhaps it’s the same for authors – they are writers who keep showing up with stories. They keep coming back to arrange those twenty-six letters into something worth sharing.
A board game many of us began playing as children is Scrabble. It’s a game in which players line up small, lettered tiles to form a word. Serious players keep a Scrabble dictionary nearby and learn of words that are rarely used – except in word games..
I’ve heard it said that children never remember their best day in front of the television, but they will remember the days when someone spent time with them. They’ll remember who was there to play games and who taught them hobbies that took them into the great outdoors.
And although their father may not be a plumber, they’ll remember learning how to fix a plumbing issue. They’ll remember learning how to change a tire from someone who isn’t a mechanic. And they may grow up to become a chef, having been inspired by someone who knows just the basics.
My mother told me she didn’t realize the best years of her life were when her children were home. She was living through what she thought were tiring, nameless moments.
If my siblings and I were bored, we learned not to tell our mother, for the next thing we knew, there’d be a cleaning cloth in our hands.
According to her, there was always something to do. She’d tell us to go read something. Or write something.
Fast forward to today. Now I’m the one telling people they ought to find a pen and paper and write a quick story about something that once happened to them. Something only they could tell but their family would enjoy reading.
Those of us who own boxes full of photos can write a few identifying words on the backs of them. Someday, someone will be grateful for what we did.
Those twenty-six letters are here to help us make something out of nothing. We can write our to-do list. We can keep a journal. We can make Xs and Os show up in unexpected places. We can write about days gone by. There are nameless moments longing to be named.
We can play Scrabble and learn how many points we’ll tally if we figure out how to play the X, Q, and Z tiles. Or we can sit on the floor and play a loud game of Spoons.
Children will discover that we older people may not look much like kids anymore, but we still know a thing or two about being one. Every day is an empty page, and we’re right on time for our next chapter.
———————–
Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie, and “Grandma, You Already Am Old!” are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com