“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.”
“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.