Disclaimer: I would rather recite the Times Tables to 12 backwards, do an hour of Hot Yoga in a ventless room with a gassy camel, or have the window seat next to a Blutbad flying on Air Force One than write a BIO.
I am a writer of genre fiction.
It’s important that you know I spent my years of lower learning in the Show-Me state. This is why I know the difference between a mosquito, a tick, and a chigger. Writers were born for research.
During my when-I-grow-up-I-wanna-be years in the Windy City and its finer suburbs, I wanted to be a train conductor. Ride the rails and blow that whistle, baby. I wanted to be a pilot, until I was actually airborne in my uncle’s four-seater. The little moo cows were cute, but the vertigo was a nauseous roll in the belly, and I was one puke bag away from death. I wanted to be a steamboat captain, but there are parasites in them thar waters. Yup. I wanted to be a race car driver, but I’m too claustrophobic to be strapped into an itty, bitty, metal container bolted to hunks of rubber. Motorcycle racer! The wind, the speed. Oops. The skid, the gravel. The legs looking like yesterday’s roadkill. Writers were born to spend most of their day in a chair, as God intended.
It took two weeks of summer camp for the Girl Scouts to teach me proper floating technique, without a flotation device. Bummer. In 14 agonizing, bug-ridden days, I was transformed from the non-floater to the non-stop floater. Let’s not speak of dog-paddling. It’s just painful. That pretty much sums up my eye/hand/foot coordination years. I did go on to excel in contact sports. By excel, I mean I could catch any ball anywhere, anytime… with my face. I moved on to handball and racquetball in my mature sports years. You can do a lot of crashing into walls in those sports. It’s a requisite. For once in my life, I looked totally cool. Writers were born to tell lies.
I’ve held countless jobs from working the penny candy counter in a cigar store to selling real estate. This makes my resume look like a page out of a Where’s Waldo book? Writers were born to work odd jobs — like actors — to support their craft.
Mr. G, honey scored a first date with this pick-up line — “Are you that statuesque blonde I met in the office?” Since I’m not overly tall and my legs only go to the floor, am I easy or what? This pick-up line is why writers were born to re-write.
Since I actually like digging in the same trench with the guy I married, I now call the wilds of suburban Canada my home. This is why I wear socks to bed from September to June. Writers were born to exaggerate.