A bit about myself

I suddenly feel inclined to discuss something. Much of what I’m going to say could probably be guessed by those who keep up with this blog, but for the rest of you …

Why don’t I talk a lot about myself except in abstract? Why do none of you know if I’m black, white, green, or pink? If I’m male, female, transgendered? Gay, straight, bi, other? Tall, short, fat, skinny? Big busted, well hung, or any of that other nonsense?

A few simple reasons.

First off, I’m not a very public person, really. I like my privacy. I feel that talking over much about myself where my writing or just general thoughts (which, in a quite round about way, is the same thing) don’t extend is to open my front door and throw wide my curtains and invite you all to stare at me. I can’t do that; I’d go mad.

Secondly, for philosophical reasons. I know there are people who would buy my book if they knew I was a blonde, or a redhead, or a brunette, or if they knew I was a lesbian … or not one. They feel they should support authors of a certain demographic. That doesn’t empower anyone. There’s no reason not to read the works of a cisgendered heterosexual white man beyond them not being any good or not your cuppa. Just as there is no special reason to read the works of a pansexual half-black/half-Chinese transgendered man beyond the sheer enjoyment of his work. I’m not going to run out and buy a book just because it was written by a Martian.

I want my work judged on its own merit. If I’m, in some extent, a mystery, then you cannot judge it on me. You have to read it and make up your own mind. Is this coercive? I can’t see how! If you can’t bring yourself to read something by a woman, or by a non-woman, or by a porcupine who has a thing for radishes … make up your own mind what/who I am and go on. I’m sure I can’t avoid slipping clues about myself into my writings and commentary.

For example, I may as well be honest on one point: Yes, I am a woman (who’s surprised?). I can’t imagine I come across often or clearly as a man given that I simply do not understand men whatsoever beyond some very dear and wonderful ones I have the distinct pleasure and honour to know and call friends — some very old and exceedingly dear ones; these are the men I put into my works — not wholesale, just in concept and manner, the odd quirk or personality trait might be borrowed from a couple of guys I know.

No, I will not answer my racial ancestry. I will not answer my hair colour (though I may have said it in an off-hand way once). I will not answer if I prefer the ladies or the gentlemen when I get ready to cuddle and caress and enjoy intimate company with another person. I will not name my religion, though I recently did say I am not Christian (I’m sure that did surprise a few people … for what it’s worth I was raised in a Christian family and do have a great respect for Jesus and His teachings). I will not answer what organs and anatomy might be found inside my panties. I possibly have said I drive a truck; I will not say what brand. I … none of that. Frankly it’s no one’s business but my own and those who know me intimately, for another I simply do not think that humanity will get anywhere if we keep pigeonholing each other and ourselves and our interactions — if you’re going to buy my book just because you now know conclusively it’s by a woman … please don’t, please read the blurb and then the sample — see if it’s something you’d like to buy and that you would enjoy and then purchase it.

The one thing I’ll always admit to: I am Homo Sapiens, and that’s all that anyone ever need know about the personal and intimate details of any author, director, actor/actress, singer, songwriter, musician, magician, whatever. When we can look at one another and see nothing but a human, and a few pragmatic details (I mean, a redhead’s complexion versus a black person‘s … you might be slightly more inclined to remind the redheaded friend to not forget her sunscreen) then I’ll believe that humans are an evolved, enlightened, and intelligent species.