One piece of homework that my account manager at Wheatmark gave me was to create an author autobiography. It was all I could do not to giggle when she said it. Not that I don't take her seriously. But, an autobiography about me?
After I got over my initial amusement, my friend clueless showed up and left me with a lovely batch of "You've got nothing." I mean, I haven't lived in a monastery my whole life, but neither was I in the running for that commercial featuring the 'most interesting man in the world.' Yeah, the Dos Equis ad.
Anyway, what could I say about myself? I picked a couple of books by my favorite authors from the shelf and looked through their 'about the author' blurbs. Blurbs is what they were. I guess their writing speaks for itself. Not much help there.
Then, another thought occurred to me. Maybe it was okay to write about my mostly average life so far. Isn't that the idea of self-publishing - to snatch the once-unthinkable notion of creating a book - a book! - down from the loftiest of pedestals so that normal Joes like you or I could lay claim to such an achievement?
From that point of view, my autobiography could be seen as a celebration of commonality, and in essence, of community, with all of you.
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