Picture it…
Your feet are firmly pressed against the pale oak flooring of the stage. You can barely make out the mic standing merely six inches from your face in the soft red glow of the exit signs. You can feel the hum of a packed house, feel their eyes trained on your position. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Only a soft rustle from the impatient man in the fifth row fills the silent void. A loud clank echoes throughout the auditorium and suddenly you’re engulfed in the bright steady stream of light pouring down on you. The spotlight momentarily blinding you. You should speak, say something. Anything. But the words are caught in your throat, beavered up like a dam. Your heart begins to race like Nightshade chasing the Triple Crown. A tiny droplet beads at your temple and for a moment you’re paralyzed. There’s not a cell in your body you can render under your control…
This is what it’s like when I hear the words Brief Bio.
I can write you novels. 90,000+ words of conflict, passion and life, but I can’t write a brief bio. It’s insane. It’s illogical.
I equate it much the same as my love-hate relationship with Twitter. I just don’t do brief. Have you met me? I love to talk. Nice, long-winded, drive you insane because I won’t stop talking, conversations. 140 characters? Come on Twitter, you gotta give me more than that. My hashtags are longer than 140 characters. Want the most detailed, overly helpful directions? Ask me. I’ll give you road names, landmarks, historical facts and the color of every house on the road. Ask me to describe myself in one word, and all I got it “stumped”.
And the problem is not talking about myself. Obviously.
I don’t’ know what it is. Maybe it’s that it feels forced? Or cheesy? It’s not like it’s the most exciting or entertaining thing I write, for sure. Or maybe it’s the whole writing about yourself in the third person? I like to feel more like I am having a conversation with my audience, not talking at them. Whatever it is, it’s a pain in my tuckus.
So tell me, what’s your spotlight?
