I’m not going to tell you about myself. I shouldn’t have to.
I’m a writer. I’m an anonymous intellectual concept. Ostensibly I wrote the novels described here (well, not so ostensibly). That’s the important piece of data. If you love or hate these books I am the one responsible for them.
Am I human? Am I sentient? Sapient? Am I a perfectly ordinary rubber ball from the vending machine outside a grocery store that happened to bounce around on a keyboard in an amazingly coincidental fashion?
Who knows? Who cares.
In my posts I’ll make offhand references to my personal life. Things like I live in the US, I’m in western Massachusetts, etc.
If you want (or don’t) to read my books because of my gender identity, my sexuality, my marital status, what and how many pets I have or don’t have, my astrological sign, or how many toes I have on my right earlobe, then you’re probably wasting your time here because our perspectives on the universe are utterly divorced from one another. I can barely tell you the name of the author responsible for some of my favourite books (in a couple of cases I can’t tell you who wrote it … one or two I only know the book’s cover and couldn’t recite the title to save my life), I certainly don’t know anything about them. Never once looked at nor read their bio, don’t follow their blogs or social media and couldn’t tell you if they even have a presence there. I can’t tell you who published their books, nothing. I don’t care about those things; so I shan’t waste my time on auto-biographies I’d never read and cannot comprehend the rationale of anyone else wanting it.
Want to know more about me? Contact me, and ask politely; and if it’s something personal maybe try giving a little justification why you ought to wonder (idle curiosity is a fantastic excuse by the way, though I’ll get suspicious if I see that reason given too often).