The Cult of the Author

In the end, does it really matter whether it was Stephen King or Richard Bachman who forced us to examine our own mortality? Or should we celebrate the craft itself—the way a story lingers, unsettles, or reveals something about our own inescapable flaws—rather than the person behind the curtain?

What is it about unmasking our heroes, anyway?

The deeper we dig, the more we expose. But when we tear away the illusions we built around them, are we really uncovering truth? Or are we just proving that we need those illusions to exist in the first place?

Take JK Rowling, for example. Supremely talented, celebrated worldwide for her literary contributions. Her work meant so much that we insisted on knowing exactly what made her tick. And then, when we didn’t like what we uncovered, we turned.

Whose fault is that?

Hers—for being human, with hopes, desires, and contradictions?

Or ours—for refusing to be satisfied with the simple, radical truth that stories can matter even if the storyteller disappoints us?

But here’s the real question—

Why do we do this to authors and podcasters but not to screenwriters, directors, or producers?

Why do we demand transparency from one kind of storyteller, but let others remain ghosts behind their work?

Is it the intimacy of books and voices—or just the illusion of access?

I don’t know the answer.

But I know that the next time I pick up a book, I won’t be flipping to the author bio first.

What about you? Let’s talk!