Last night I got another request for the full manuscript from an agent I queried. She made one of the loveliest statements I’ve ever received about my writing (sent the opening with the query), and if my back wasn’t still broken I’d have done a happy dance. She wanted a file type (you know, the dot whatever) that isn’t my computer’s default, but hey, no problem–Man Child showed me how to do that last month. I kept reading. She wanted my full bio, too. Errrr.
I went from feeling like this
Let me say oof, to go along with that errr. I don’t have a bio. Not just that I didn’t have one prepared, I really don’t have anything to say. Average downward mobile gal, unremarkable life of trying to figure out how to pay the bills each month, extraordinary kiddos, dog poop picker upper with a vivid imagination. None of which is relevant to me as a writer, or the story of ASTONISHING. No alcoholism, no magic (good or bad), move along, please, these are not the splendid boobs you’re looking for.
According to the inimitable Janet Reid, patron saint of wanna be writers everywhere, this is not something to worry about. But I’m a querying wanna be–by definition I’m worrying.
I wrote two sentences having to do with my life in cyberspace as Mrs Fringe. Maybe I threw something in about dog poop.