Heather Masterson

You’d think that writing the book would be the hardest part. Me? I’m tripping all over the “about the author” page like I’m trying to climb Everest wearing flip-flops and a winning smile. (All of those things are the stuff of fiction: I would never climb Everest, I would never wear flip-flops, and… you get the drift. Around here, “winning smile” means, “Didn’t bare her teeth, growl, and go for my throat. Win!”)

It’s the little things that trip me up. Take the dedication, for instance. Talk about a trap. “Dedication… uh… who’s going to get mad if I don’t mention them? Do I care? Do I even want to dedicate it to anybody?” I told a co-worker, in a fit of irritation, that I was going to write something along the lines of, “This book is dedicated to NOBODY, because I did it all MYSELF, bitches! Peace out!” She doubled over laughing. I wouldn’t actually do that. Probably. It’s rude, and it’s not true. Every author gets help of some kind, whether it’s editorial assistance, moral support, feedback, or just a well-timed scoop of vanilla ice cream (I admit it, my taste in ice cream is pretty boring.) But then it’s like, “Wait, this person shouldn’t be in the dedication, they should be in the acknowledgment, and maybe that person shouldn’t be in the acknowledgment, they should be in the dedication… and wait, that person actually should be mentioned over… WHERE is my copy of Pontypool, because I need to watch it RIGHT NOW!”

I know – an author bio isn’t exactly little. It’s important. But it feels like writing an author bio should be a bloody breeze in comparison to writing the entire danged book. And yes, I should have written it already… and yes, I did write it already. Seven times. Each one was both better and worse than the last. I’d think, “I can’t say that!” Then I’d take it out. And I’d put in something just as bad. Or worse. I think it’s this whole talking-about-yourself-in-the-third-person thing that’s throwing me. That’s such an asshole thing to do.

Of course, then Derek offers to write it for me and I have a five-second nervous breakdown, because I can imagine how that would go. He’ll write something that’s positive and upbeat and enthusiastic and mostly true and I’ll have a seizure and then throw up on my shoes. Compromise: He can write his version, I’ll write my version, and then we’ll look at them both and figure something out. I mean, really – how do you describe yourself to the world? Or, more specifically, how do you describe yourself to the world without ending up feeling like a pretentious twit?