In days of yore, yore being before the Internet, prestigious hard copy author bios were, and still are, for those lucky enough to have staid old New York publishers, rather straight. The bio would say for example: John Doe graduated from Northwestern, and did graduate studies in Beowulf at Cleveland Institute of the Arts. He won the William Faulkner award for his short story “Genghis Khan Dated Jesse James,” and has written both fiction and non-fiction for Atlantic Monthly; Paris Review; Berlin Reich; Playboy, and Readers Digest. In lives in New England with his wife, two daughters and a poodle named Butch.
One never saw a bio that said, “the author is a former postal worker in Humptulips , Washington,” or “the author is a housewife from Kitchenfloor, Tennessee.”
But Indie writers are everywhere, anyone can write a novel-hell, I did. Now let me state that my old bio did mention I had a degree in English Literature from Western Washington University, wrote film reviews for ten years, and all that jazz. Except no poodle named Butch.
I keep reading from those in the know, seem to be in the know, or claim to be in the know, that in todays world the author bio needs to be more friendly and personal in order to relate to people on social media and social networking and all that poodle doodle.
So without further ado, my new author bio:
Since I was born the following has happened to me; my mother and I saw a UFO; my voice was recorded at the Washington State Performing Arts Center and used for a radio DJ in a play; I was a volunteer legislative aide for one year in the Washington State House of Representatives; I managed theatres; owned a bookstore; wrote film reviews for ten years for a small town newspaper; a brief memoir of mine was published in “Christmas Spirit” by St. Martins Press; I visited the homes of John Keats and Charles Dickens when I was in London (they weren’t home); I stayed in the same hotel in London-though I did not know it at the time-where Jimi Hendrix died; I nearly severed a large vein or artery (how do you tell) on the back of my hand with a broken dish I was washing at a woman’s apartment in Goteborg, Sweden; while house sitting at Ocean Shores, Washington, a butcher knife fell out of a cupboard nearly slicing my finger off; I may have met the Manson Family one month before the Tate-La Bianca murders; I was stranded in Esbjerg, Denmark, without money; I am descended from two Danish Squires; in 1969 I saw Juan Marichal pitch for the Giants in San Francisco and the next night saw Tom Seaver pitch for the Mets against the Dodgers in LA and both became Hall of Fame pitchers; I am a Strat-o-matic fanatic; I learned when living on North Cherokee in Hollywood, that across the street on the next block was one of the places where “The Black Dahlia” lived; I owe Rick Barry, NBA Hall of Famer, an apology; I heard Anthony Burgess, author of “Clockwork Orange” tell a lie-and I was reasonably disheartened; I could go on, but I have to stop sometime.
Now you know much about me, and yes, it is all true.