In my recent birthday post, I opened the virtual floor for questions, if anyone had any. About me. The response was minimal. I was expecting that to some degree. And I feel like I’m effectively off the hook now as far as writing an autobiography goes. Woot!
But I didn’t want to ignore the few questions that did get asked.
I’ll try to keep my answers brief.
Why are you “terrified of bios”?
Because they expect me to cough up a laundry list of things I have to show for myself after inhabiting the earth for 43 years. It’s not like I haven’t done anything. But it puts me in a defensive position when someone asks, “what have you done? And how does that make you qualified to be here?”
When you’re a kid and you’re asked to write about “you”, its easy.
My name is [blank]. My favorite color is [blank]. I like [blank]. My family is [blank]. I have [blank] pets. My friend’s name is [blank]. When I grow up, I want to be a [blank].
If you can fill in those blanks, you’re officially qualified to be a kid.
But to provide a “bio” as an adult, that somehow proves you’re worth whatever title you’re trying to own, or industry validation you’re trying to get, or social space you’re trying to hang out in, or background you’re trying to blend in with.
That’s hard, man. And scary for some people. I be one of those.
What do you like most about yourself?
I have a rapier wit. And I’m a terrible liar.
What do you dislike the most?
I’m impulsive. And I’m a terrible liar.
What do you hope you'll achieve with your Substack?
I’d like to look back on it as the best and bravest thing I ever did creatively. And ultimately, I want it to lead to something resembling a career in writing.
I also went ahead and filled in my Mad Lib Substack mission statement:
I want Stock Fiction to provide [entertainment] for [open minded] people who enjoy [surprises] and love to read [whatever I throw at them].
And I made a bumper sticker:
What is the purpose of your life?
To make something meaningful. And to leave an impression.
Even if it’s just a little one.