If this story is written only for myself, then so be it. But it doesn’t feel that way. I feel you out there, reader. This is the only kind of intimacy I’m comfortable with. Just the two of us, here in the dark. (Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides, p319)
What’s there then, if we’re not writing for our readers. Writing for s/he who will understand in time to come. Writing to leave our posterity in time, all those words capturing the essence of us so that we won’t be merely dust. Writing to someone so that we can keep on writing, keep on talking and remain self-absorbed and we don’t even need to be bothered with your thoughts, silent reader, because we cannot hear them. Some good authors probably can anticipate what you might ask, what you might question. Why is there a loophole here? But even better authors won’t really give a care. They’re self-absorbed and nasty. But they also make one of the best reads in the world.
They have something to say and if you won’t listen, they’ll find somewhere else who will. It better be a person who likes the dark though. Because only in the dark do stories get told.
That’s authorial power.