I love to read authors bios. I want to know where they live, how many pets they have, any fun information I can glean from the author’s bio. And sometimes there’s fun tidbits in there, and sometimes you can tell their mother made them write it.
Point being, and yes, I do have a point….what would *I* write in my author’s bio when I become rich, famous and well-published. Oh wait, I guess I’d better FINISH an actual manuscript first, eh?
Most author’s bios contain something like “I started writing when I was five..” “Wrote my first novel a the precocious age of…” and even the infamous “dictated my story because I wasn’t old enough to write yet.”
That leaves me out entirely. I started writing (seriously) last April. 2009. Oh sure, I took classes in school – you have to right? But my english teachers HATED my writing. I thought I wrote brilliant, descriptive works of art, they gave me a D. Sometimes a D+. Finally I cornered my best friend and asked to see her A-rated composition.
It was tripe. Seriously. And have you ever seen tripe? Blah. It’s white and pasty and definitely organ-meat looking. Ew.
I couldn’t believe my EYES! (not just about the tripe, get the image out of your head now ok? we’ve moved on) Her essay was horrid, weenie, tripey. (ok, now we’re really moving on) It was mush, poetry without rhyming, swirly words with no meaning.
At that moment, I lost all respect for my English teacher.
But…I learned from it. And I wrote my next essay as tripey as I could make it. I can still remember it to this day (plus my mother kept a copy of it for my younger sister to steal for her homework assignments)
A dove. A bird of peace. Flying high in a blue, sunlit sky.
Oh yeah. Barf. I don’t write like that (in case you haven’t noticed) but I waited, pranced about, probably whining for TWO WHOLE DAYS waiting for my grade. I was sure I’d flunk this one. I mean seriously, 30 some years later it still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
And you know what? I got an A. Not just an A – an A PLUS. I was shocked, horrified and other adjectives. You mean people actually LIKE this stuff? They read this? THIS is all I have to do to get an A????
Just that plain and simple. Oh yeah, I aced that class, and the other English classes. Even a creative writing class in college.
But it wasn’t until email that I realized I could write. And write funny. Sending stories to my family when I moved out to Arizona for ten months (don’t ask) would have them calling me in tears….please write more! I should specify happy tears. Hysterical laughter tears. Soon I was writing a newsletter to half the people of my hometown filled with The Adventures of Carrie and people were begging for more. To this day people still stop and ask me if the Tarantula story was true. (It is.) If I really saved that ladies life by applying a tourniquet made from the meat butchers white shirt. (I did.)
True life, well my true life anyways, is a variety of stories just waiting to be written.
And sometimes, as in the case of the Tarantula Story, waiting for enough time to pass before I find them humorous.