The Author Bio

So, I was about to do this talk radio show, and I was getting ready by checking out the interviews other authors have done, when I noticed their author bios. They all had one thing in common; they were all warm and personable! My bio, in contrast, read like a poster on the wall at the D.M.V.

Apparently, everyone else is a “book lover” and lives with a cuddly animal. I have a “humorous cast of characters” and have held various rankings. I sound about as fun as a proctology exam. The problem is, I don’t collect lip gloss. I collect empty wine bottles. And the only thing fuzzy in my apartment is a container of yogurt from 1989. But surely there must be something I could say that would capture the real me?  This is what I came up with:

N.M. Silber is a lawyer, nerd girl, conspiracy theorist, wine whisperer and all-around good egg. She lives in an overpriced studio apartment with the dust bunnies under her bed and no regrets. She writes books that have sex, banter and a little mystery in them. People apparently like them.

I thought about tossing in that I can do the Electric Slide and I know all the words every Duran Duran song ever recorded, but I was afraid I would date myself too much. Adding that I was the president of the Nancy Drew fan club might have been cool. Except that I was in college at the time. Do you think anyone would be impressed that I’m STD free? I could add that.

Here’s a question, does anybody actually read the author bio? Maybe I could just use someone else’s, like Hemingway’s. I wonder if anyone would notice.

The Enticement of Uncertainty

There is a tide in the affairs of women, which taken at the flood …  could lead to a fairly stable, or at least not too terribly unstable, romantic relationship. Or at least a fun, flirty friendship, with a few butterflies in the tummy, great sex, and no emergency calls to your therapist, your best friend or your AA sponsor.

Unfortunately, it could also lead to eating 3 quarts of Ben and Jerry’s Boom Chocolatta while dressed in flannel cow pajamas, listening to Adele singing Make You Feel My Love on continuous replay and drinking wine out of a box. Okay, not that last one. Nothing could make me drink boxed wine. But I think you get my point.

You know that moment ladies, the one when you realize that despite being intelligent, empowered and a regular reader of Jezebel, you are probably going to take a chance on a guy who could be great, or could very well be dangerous to your peace-of-mind.  I’m not talking some loser; in fact, he’s likely quite impressive, or why would a chick like you be willing to roll the dice? He’s probably attractive and quite accomplished, but for whatever reason, you suspect that he might not being ready, willing, able or just plain interested enough, in treating you as well as you clearly deserve to be treated.

Let’s say, hypothetically, he’s a busy guy. But you are a busy woman too. You tell yourself, “I’m nobody’s second priority. If he cancels on me this time, I’m done.” But inside, you know that the chances are far too great that you’ll whip out that calendar app and reschedule. In fact, you might as well have “WELCOME” tattooed across your tuchus.  And even though your girlfriends, your sister, your former college roommate, that old woman who makes change at the laundromat, all said “No good can come of this,” you’re still keeping Saturday night, (okay and Sunday afternoon, but just until four), open “just in case.”

And you know it’s wrong. And if he cancels there will be a bit of self-loathing, but at least your apartment will be spotless. And why do we do this? Why do we defy logic, cast aside that fine education that we’ll be paying off until we’re ninety, ignore the sound advice of people who care about us and the old lady at the laundromat? Because what Oscar Wilde said was true, “The very essence of romance is uncertainty.” Damn.