Not my bio. Nope. Not mine.

And this is not the machine* that I thought I would be using to write on, but such as it is, here I am.
I did not write much in terms of story but I did write an awful lot, updating my one page a day journal, of how many things I am doing other than writing.
I really should be writing.
At the very damned least I should be writing a bio for the WCYR. What the hell can I say about myself? Not much, really.
Do I tell them that I taught myself everything I know about my full time job, and have managed this well and for this long with the love of my family and the support of my wife and the encouragement of my good friends?
Do I tell them that my first real, concrete memory, other than having my pants pulled down in front of all of the girls in first grade, resulting in me punching him enough times to make him bleed and cry, that memory is of me writing a story about Robbie Bond and his Lamborghini Countach?
Do I tell them that I was told that no one goes to school to be a writer, so I decided what was the point in staying in school and left, just barely finishing what was required to get me out of grade 12 and into the workplace, because if I wasn’t writing for a living, whatever I did, didn’t really matter because I knew I would do it well enough to afford me time to do what it was that I really loved?
Do I tell them that the most memorable piece of advice I can remember, of all the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on courses and training programs, of all the night courses and weekend courses, came from a man by the name of Art Stone who taught a one day course at Seneca College about ‘How to Sell What you Write’? I remember it most because he made fun of me, saying I was the kind of writer who would sit, chain smoking while wasting away, writing the one great, Canadian novel. Art Stone said that writing for a living was like being a hooker, first you did it for yourself, then you did it for friends, and then you do it for money. Writing is an art, he told us, but selling it is a business, and the sooner we learned that, the better.
Do I tell them that I cried the first night at my Nanna’s house after the first day of The Humber School for Writers week, because for the first time I did not feel strange and alone?
Do I tell them about the gigabytes of data, reams of looseleaf paper, shelves filled with notebooks of all shapes and sizes, about the manilla envelopes, stamps, International Reply Coupons, pens, pencils, china markers, Parker Jotters, Schaeffer Sentinels, Fisher Spacepens Fisher Spaceink, inkjet cartridges bought, inkjet cartridges filled, inkjet printers, dot matrix printers, ribbons and ribbons cartridges for dot matrix printers of all shapes and sizes, and all of the other things I’ve collected and thrown away over the years, all in the pursuit of doing what it is that I love?
I don’t think so. I think I’ll make my bio something like – If I have something in my hands that can record what’s on my mind, I’m writing about what is going on around me. It has been that way for me as long as I can remember.

*Toshiba Satellite Pro4300

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