What is an author?

I don't know what it means to be an author. I write, but that just makes me a writer. What is an author? An author writes a narrative – which need not be interpreted literally. A narrative tells a story, whether with words, pictures, musical notes, or a combination thereof. Am I an author? Other than my life, which I'm not even sure about, what can I say that I have narrated? Experience. The words, structures and relationships between characters... I have dictated them. I speak the words into them, to communicate what I mean to convey, flushing out the nuanced intricacies of my relationships. Yes, the plot, setting, and rising action are all under control. But when control is feigned, or it is trumped, I cannot be surprised. For these characters have realized the truth in being part of a narrative: that they too are actors and can change the story of they will it.

Every thought, a sentence. Every new thought, a paragraph. I indent, the way I enunciate with facial expressions. My grammar is my foundation. Sometimes I don't know it, and get corrected. Other times, I built off the suggestions that my grammar offers implicitly. Anticipating the rules keeps me one step ahead of the game, or whatever that's supposed to signify.

I write to be heard, a right in the herd
Righteous with words that ripen with verve.
A rite that's observed, rife with a worth
That might be absurd with rhyming averred.

But hey, expression is paramount so long as the message is conveyed. But who is qualified to interpret: is the author like an artist? Trying to capture a moment, an event, a scene, an emotion... with the observer left to ponder and guess at the precision of the artist's brush strokes? Everyday I'm Mona Lisa. Now try and figure me out. Sometimes I write to be clear, other times I write to be interpreted. A heuristic hermeneutic though perhaps too histrionic. I often write with hidden meaning – with such a slight allusion that I can appreciate the reference, but I wonder if anyone else can? Sometimes I even forget my own intended meaning.

"A masterpiece", I said.
"That's your piece?", she read.
"No, an artistic casualty", to pretend.
"Oh, I see", was her amend.

One can never insult an artist. An artist is always intentional, even when he is not. His cavalier demeanor hides nothing and everything at once. His secret is on his sleeve, but he is a magician, so you would never think to look there. Careful should you insult an author, or he may write you into his story as an unfortunate character. But be consoled in that every author needs inspiration, even for the uninspired banal characters.

Some stories never begin. Others never end. Some are told so well that, finding ourselves in them, we forget that they are being told all together. What if your life was but a story told: you can't remember the beginning, nor do you know how it will end. What then? Well, I'll tell you what then: nobody cares unless you do something with it. And I don't mean go out and get a job, get married with a mortgage and raise 2.5 kids, but something that is both different and worthwhile: author your own story, for christ sake.