With articles and a few stories in print, together with a couple of novels in the drawer, I considered myself a writer. Technically, given that my "by line" was attached to them, I was also an author. Still, there is something about having a novel published that seemed quite apart from what I had already done.
My latest novel didn't stay in the drawer. I dedicated it to my Mom, who is now in a nursing home, and in slowly declining health. I wanted to present to her personally, rather than have it be a memorial. So, I choked back the lump in my throat and went for some professional assistance in typography and cover design. A thousand dollars later, there was my book, available for the whole world to read.
It doesn't seem the world is terribly interested. My research indicates the "average" volume for an Indie offering is 15. I've managed that, but only because of personally selling 6. Amazon accounts for an astonishing three copies. The Kindle version has done two.
My conclusion from all this is that I am a writer, a scribbler of words. An author is still beyond my grasp, since my personal definition of an author necessarily includes readers.
So, I'll likely continue to fill computer memory and drawers with my personal graffiti, but my expectations of reaching any eyes other than my own, decreases each time the sun rises.