“What are you going to tell people?  About yourself?” my husband – he of the crazy-mad-wonderful listening-and-suggesting, perfect-writer’s-assistant skillz – asks as I glare at the devious, blinking cursor on my computer screen.  The comfort of our sofa works against me, lulling me toward vegification as I try – and fail – to come up with an author’s bio.

“Um… that I think socks are awesome?” I sound out, brows quirked.  “Especially orange ones even though they make my feet look like a duck’s?”

He disagrees helpfully, “Or that you live in Japan.”

I scoff.  “That sounds waaaaaay more interesting than it actually is.”

“Is this non-fiction?”

“Er…”  He has a point.  “Maybe?”

His eyebrows arch expressively.

“The truth is easier to remember,” I feel compelled to point out.

“And more boring.”

“There’s that…”

“You lied all the time in class at your old teaching job.”

I roll my eyes.  “All my examples were about Godzilla.  Like, seriously.  How can you top that?”


“Yeah.  You see my problem here; incredibly high attention-grabbing standards.”

“Good luck with that.”

I snort.  “Thanks.  You’re evil, you know.”

He leans over and kisses my cheek.  “I learned it from you.”

That he did.