After re-reading Gold on Labor Day, I did manage to complete yet another book proposal, which I promptly punted to my agent (this sounds so Hollywoodish, doesn't it?); and, because I was so far behind on my correspondence, also managed to answer several editors who were kind enough to inform me that they were publishing my work.
As always, most of these editors were requesting a one-paragraph biography, and I always struggle with these things. Like Joe Friday, I usually just "stick with the facts, ma'am." I offer a couple of my book titles, inform the audience where I live (who gives a crap where I live? Brownsburg? Where the heck is that place?), and then offer a few words about the things I enjoy doing (but who cares about what I like?).
These brief biographies remind me that I have nothing to tell. I'm like the guard on Hogan's Heroes. I know nussing!
The longer I write, the less I know. The more I talk about the things I like to do, the less I enjoy doing them.
One of these days I'm going to get up the courage to submit this biography to an editor. I'd love to know if anyone reads it.
The guy who wrote this junk couldn't help himself, and, quite frankly, he can't be helped. We'd give you his name here, but we know you really don't care. To say that this guy is alive and writing should be enough, and there's no point in telling the readers his various book titles, or where he lives, or what he enjoys doing with his wife. It should suffice to say that his wife doesn't enjoy any of his pursuits anyway, and it might be of some comfort to many of you to learn that this guy spends most of his free time writing even more of this crap. If you wish to reach him (to thank him for his inspiring words, to complain, or to leave an obscene message on his voicemail) we can provide contact information.
No comments:
Post a Comment