You want to know how hard it is to write about yourself? Chinese algebra is easier.
I’ve worked over this profile who knows how many times, every draft getting progressively worse and more boring, and I keep waiting for the nice warm feeling, the glow of achievement, to settle in.
Yeah, well, it’s still cold as river ice, writer-boy, so just keep waiting.
Until inspiration strikes, here are the facts for the seven people on the planet who care:
- 30 years of writing experience (which makes me slightly older than the sun)
- Worked as chief creative writer and VP of PR and public affairs for a large regional agency
- U.S. Senate press secretary (very cool, didn’t pay for a drink or a meal all the time I was in D.C.)
- Handled corporate communications and marketing functions in the public and private sector
- Former journalist (sports editor, national editor, metro editor, columnist)
- Slew of awards – bunch of Addys, three Tellys, a Galaxy, a bronze from WorldFest-Houston, two turtle doves
- Written special sections for Fortune
- Executive speeches published in Vital Speeches of the Day
- Provide communications-related training throughout North America (from writing to websites, public speaking to public relations, social media to strategic messaging)
- Playwright with four NYC credits (think Broadway, except without the lights, the big theatres, the crowds, and the interest)
- Optioned screenwriter (some have even won awards)
- Published author (no, you’ve never heard of it)
My guess is that this painful stab at a bio will be futile, too. Because when I show it to The Boss, she’ll probably cluck at me, or tsk-tsk, or grab something sharp, or whatever she does when I (frequently) annoy her, and make some vague threat involving the amputation of an essential body part if I don’t move back in the direction of normalcy.
And when I ask her, somewhat rhetorically, “What, really, is normal?” she’ll reach into her drawer and pull out the Taser, which she’d gleefully shoot me with, except if I’m on the floor twitching like a meth head with his finger in an electrical outlet, I’m not working, and if I’m not working –
But enough about me.