The publisher has asked for my biography. A little blurb about 250 words long. How had can that be? I can blow 250 words just saying hello.
Ah, for the lack of a machine of brass and steam that would steal this image of you glowing in my head that I could then emblazon on bold and brightly on my garment to boost to others of our enraptured greeting, casting warm magical sunlight to their shadowy cubicles where they toll unending, ignorant of your gracious smile and pleasant demeanor. I must spin tales of twighlight and night to you for surely your sparkling eyes have never witnessed the setting sun, or have they stolen the stars of the night, casting enchantment so the room doesn't dim when you blink? How are you?
See, I can go on. So how hard could it be for me to write about something that actually happened and I personally witnessed?
Here it is:
The author was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, but he moved out and doesn't live there anymore.
Should I mention the ginormous cherry tree? Our dog, Digger? Do people actually care what highschool an author went to? That he once thought about cheating on his taxes but chickened out?
What about an author's life would anyone care about? Is it possible to think less of the guy if you discovered he was just another Smoe? Once, a coworker came over to my house and said that he was disappointed that I had a normal house. He had envisioned that I have a massive tree house and I had to swing by jungle vine from room to room.
I write sword and sorcery. Shouldn't I then have armor and do battles with people?
Oh, wait, I do that already.
We try again.
The author was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY and has armor and a sword and does battle with people.
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