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Bio Hazard By Amy Mullis
In Honors English back in Greer, South Carolina (population: about the same as the big box of Crayola crayons), I wrote a thesis on diction and imagery in “Death of a Salesman.” The play could be called “Death from Boredom” if my interest were any indication, but I dashed out a paper with very little sweat and certainly without accessing a vein, and accepted the glowing review-- and the A-- with grace and refinement. In college, I carved a dazzling thesis into15 pages of unblemished typing paper, discussing all the highlights of Tennyson’s poetry that I could create and document the day before the deadline. The only aspect of the project that posed a problem was typing on a ten-year-old manual typewriter while I waited patiently for someone to invent and market the personal computer. Since that time, I’ve had a hand in the creation of research papers, newsletters, at least one dramatic piece of correspondence involving a desperate plea for a favorite laundry product to be reintroduced to the market, and, while we’re on the subject, published essays. None of these projects caused minor skin irritation, loss of bladder control, or dropped calls.
The challenge comes when an editor or an assistant, or anyone else that I can’t deny without having the outcome affect my income, asks for a biography. “Just a few short sentences to tell us about yourself.” Asking for short sentences is like asking you to hang the prisoner with less rope. The result is the same. There’s just a little more tension.
How do you describe yourself in the amount of space normally set aside for a matchmaking ad? (MWF loves late nights, humorous essays, and spell-check.) If your bio is the literary equivalent of a blind date with a good personality, it’s time to practice a little inspired and inventive description. But throw in one of your normal witticisms, and you can feel your victims backing away from the printed page.
One afternoon I was hard at work practicing clever bio introductions, when Son Number Two leaned over my shoulder. He’s fourteen, and therefore omniscient. Also, the world revolves around him, rotating on an axis made of pizza and chocolate bars.
“Are you gonna put that?”
“What?”
“That part about your name.”
“It’s kind of important in a biography.”
“Oh.” Chewing noises sounded in my ear. “Aren’t you afraid somebody will find out it’s you?”
“That’s the idea. I want to get credit for the work I did.”
“Well, don’t use my name, okay?”
Nothing says family loyalty like a child who volunteers for the Witness Protection Program. The only one left in the family willing to let me use her name in connection with mine is Lucy, the Dachshund, whom I bribe with bologna sandwiches and barbecue chips to guarantee loyalty.
“And don’t put where we live. My friends might figure out it’s us.”
I’m more familiar with the delete key than Simon Cowell is with dirty looks.
“Okay, smart guy. What can I say in a three-line biography that won’t make me look dumb?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “Just don’t send a picture.”
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