What does it mean to be an authority?

I was yesterday years old when I made the connection between the words, author and authority. 

 I'd like to think I would have done this on my own, but it happened when my Everything Cookbooks cohost Andrea Nguyen mentioned it while talking to superstar cookbook author Kenji López-Alt.

 She says, "Author and authority come from the same root word, which means to invent or promote." (You can nerd out a little more on the etymology here.)

 The timing of this episode couldn't be better because I've been thinking a lot about authority this week. 

 During my Cookbook Proposal Boot Camp office hours on Thursday, we workshopped people's author bios. 

 I told everyone, "You want to write this to be almost uncomfortably name-droppy." I encouraged them to mention the big publications they've written for, the shows they've appeared on, the well-known restaurants where they've worked, and the relevant awards they've won. 

 Why? These names offer quick, at-a-glance validation for someone's work. They help them build their case about why they should be the authors of their books and show how they are authorities. (Duh. I'm still kicking myself that I didn't make this word connection sooner.)

 Then, there's the dreaded social media. 

 The importance some book publishers and brands put on social media followings has had some people grumbling for years. 

 In fact, over the past couple of weeks, I've talked to a few fellow freelancers who lamented how some creators present themselves as experts or authorities on Instagram, Tik Tok, or YouTube without having the same education or experience they do. 

 They wondered how I felt about that, and to be honest, I kinda shrugged. 

 Yes, it can be frustrating when you’re a skilled and experienced recipe developer, and now brands are hiring people with less experience and more followers. 

 But I've been around long enough to remember when established food writers started clutching their pearls about bloggers. 

 Adam Roberts, an O.G. food blogger, actually wrote a fabulous retort when Martha Stewart went on a mini rant: 

 "Who are these bloggers? They're not editors at Vogue magazine...I mean, there are bloggers writing recipes that aren't tested, that aren't necessarily very good, or are copies of everything that really good editors have created and done. So bloggers create kind of a popularity, but they are not the experts."

 It's worth reading the whole piece, but his response boiled down to this: "We may not be experts by your definition, but if an expert is someone that audiences trust to guide them in the right direction, we meet that criteria handily."

 And then the zinger: "The only thing separating you from the bloggers you disdain is about 50 years." 

 Ten years after this article ran, many of the "Who are these bloggers?" are some of today's most beloved food writers, including Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen and Joy Wilson of Joy the Baker. 

 Now people bemoan the rise of the Tik Tok and Instagram creators, especially young upstarts who have harnessed the power of short-form video to share their enthusiasm for food and cooking without necessarily "putting in the time" to become an expert. 

 Those with the huge followings have built undeniable connections with their audiences (just as Adam describes). Do I find it threatening? No. Frankly, it's admirable. 

I also find it liberating.
When we cry about the "good old days," what are we losing, really? 

 A well-known septuagenarian cookbook author whispered to me at an event last year, "The big joke used to be that you had to be a doctor's wife to write cookbooks, and it was kind of true."

 Cookbook authors needed ample amounts time and financial security from a partner (or family wealth) to support them as they built their authority through low-paying publishing projects. (P.S. I acknowledge this is still sometimes true.)

But at the very least, the Internet has democratized things a bit more, allowing for more voices to get through with less gatekeeping. It's also helped explode overall interest in food and given people new ways to make a living at this work.

After these conversations, I started to think about why people find these developments so irksome. Here's one theory. 

 A lot of us—especially if we're older than, say 35, followed a fairly traditional path where we're used to waiting for other people to anoint us as experts before we felt we could speak. 

 Perhaps we got degrees or worked quietly alongside a mentor before being invited to put our work into the world.  

 Also, back in the "good old days," some of us could get book publishers interested in our work simply through the merits of our writing, knowledge, and ideas without building an audience first. 

 Now, with the Internet, people can start putting their passions and learnings out there, without waiting for someone else to give them permission. But that also means that their awkward beginnings and messy middles are in full view for all of us to see. 

 Those who know more can cluck, cluck, cluck — who do they think they are — all while these less experienced folks grow their audiences and secure themselves book deals and brand deals. 

 These days, if we wait until we're truly an expert to put something out into the world, we often find we have no one to talk to. Then we have the uphill climb to build an audience. 

 Instead of concerning myself too much with the popularity of less experienced food creators, I think to myself: "Don't worry about them. Worry about you and what you have to offer."

 And, of course, "What can I learn from them?"

 One thing I've learned, and I recently said this to someone:

 "If you're 10% more skilled or knowledgeable than someone, your insight might help them."

 In fact, sometimes, true experts are so far along in their knowledge that they forget what it's like to be a beginner. 

 People who have recently learned something have it fresh in their minds, and sometimes, they're so excited about it, they're bursting to share. Plus, research shows that by teaching — by sharing your knowledge — you learn and retain it better, and develop a deeper expertise. 

 Second, when I look at things through an entirely self-serving lens, I see the rise of talented food creators as more potential work for me and my fellow seasoned writers and recipe developers who have "put in the work" but also prefer life a little more behind the scenes. 

 Why? People who build huge audiences often hire pros to help them write their books and develop their recipes as they grow. 

 For the record, I'm not saying we shouldn't value expertise. We still need experts and vetting systems for them in many cases. (I'm not going to trust someone to fill my cavities without a degree just because they happen to love teeth). 

 But when the results are lower stakes, and the worst thing that can happen if you follow someone's advice online is a poorly-made cake, shrug.

 My hope is that if creators continue to put out shoddy work, their audiences will call them on it, and they will improve. (Or they'll go away.) ;) 

 My optimistic side thinks there will always be room for voices with deep experience. The challenge for them is finding ways to share their knowledge so it resonates as we learn in new ways. 

 I'm also in awe of the many, many ways we have to share our knowledge and enthusiasm. How amazing is it that I can teach aspiring cookbook authors all over the country without needing to meet in person? 

 How cool is it that my fellow podcast cohosts and I can chat about writing cookbooks and people can listen in from all over the world at their leisure?

 How great is it that a little TikTok video will get my ten-year-old into the kitchen in a way books won't just yet. 

 And now, Substack has writers more excited than ever before. Thoughtful voices like Alicia Kennedy have a platform to say what they want to and get paid for it. 

 While the ways we build and define authority have evolved and changed, here's something that hasn't: Authority requires buy-in from other people. 

 You can research for years and years and learn more than most people about a subject, but until you share it, it's useless. Mere expertise doesn't make you an authority. 

 When you share your work and knowledge, and you find a way to make it resonate with others, you build authority. When you do work with others who already hold authority in the public view, you accelerate that growth. (It's why being name-droppy matters.)

 The trick is to share your knowledge and build authority in ways that align with who you are.

 And oh how many ways there are! 

P.S. If you, too, value voices with deep expertise, don't forget to support their work, financially and otherwise!

 

P.P.S. Also, don't write off Tik Tok as just for kids! If you want to see a great example of a Tik Tok feed by someone who has built decades of authority as an author and journalist and who is always evolving the way she tells stories, check out Elizabeth Minchilli's feed. Warning: You might get stuck there for hours!