Author of your own life

A recent column of Andrew Sullivan's got me thinking about the changing values of authorship. Do I want to be an author? And what do I mean by author?

When I was little, I loved to write. I still do. I started college not knowing what to major in: I considered architecture until I flipped through a few textbooks and then, intimidated, changed my mind. When I finally chose a major, it was magazine journalism. The dream, of course, was to become a columnist, sit by the window of my New York City apartment, and write a monthly column for Vogue. Simple, right? Then I took Print Beat Reporting. I realized that all journalism isn't exciting, but as a journalist, it's your job to make even the blah stories newsworthy. It was time to become an English major.

When I was 20 or so and someone asked if I planned to use my degree to teach, I scoffed at the idea. I had never considered being a teacher. A few years later, though, I realized that I was really in to the idea of getting paid to talk with other people about writing.

I still dream about writing that column for Vogue or publishing a novel someday, but I'm less enthusiastic about doing either. Sure, I love to write, but ultimately, publishing has to do with more than just writing -- the focus is on sharing writing with an audience. I'm just as comfortable talking about writing in a classroom and practicing it on my own time.

If, as Sullivan says, we're all authors, then becoming an author doesn't mean the same thing that it used to. But aren't we all authors already, in other ways? Every time I talk with a student about her writing, I'm authoring another dialogic learning experience. In turn, she is an author even if I am the only one to see what she writes.