Uh. I sit in my darkened room, the wind blowing eerily through the open window, billowing the curtains and stirring up the papers on my desk. They rustle ominously and flutter around the room like miniature ghosts. I narrow my eyes at the glowing, flickering computer screen, so blank and white and empty. It’s staring back at me, hypnotising me with its glow like a flame draws in a moth. It’s grinning, smirking, mocking me and my lack of creative inspiration. Come on, it sneers, write something. It’s not that hard; just place your fingers on my keyboard and type… You can’t, can you?... No, I didn’t think so.

I pound my head against my standard-office type desk in defeat. Why? Why? Why is it so hard to write a biography? Is it because I’m so boring? Is it because it’s impossible to make bio’s sound interesting? Think about it: do you really want your details on the published on the public forum, available for all to see? Do you really want people to know about you, read about you, judge you? Do you? Do you? Is that what you want?

I don’t know, I whisper to my leering computer screen. Of course you don’t know, it snickers at me, how can you expect to be a writer when you can’t even type up a simple biography, it chuckles. And then, to really aggravate my already tightly-wound nerves, it shuts down. Like it can’t be bothered to keep itself running, because I’m just not worth its precious time. The wind dies down and the airborne loose papers drop to the ground, like the matter’s settled. I sit in complete darkness for several seconds, gathering my thoughts and trying to reign in my destructive urge. Right, well, them’s fighting word, pardner, I think to myself, rolling up my starched white sleeves to my elbows, adopting my battle stance. Tensing myself for the upcoming war, I determinedly reboot the computer. Lighting flashes in the background, illuming the scene before me in colours of black, white and grey - like an old-fashioned horror movie. Before the computer even has time to taunt me, I begin furiously pounding on the keyboard. Wait, it squeaks at me, Stop. That hurts; stop it. But I just smile in victory, leaning back to regard and admire my handiwork. And this is it: my bio. My triumph.

Thank-you, thank-you. Takes bow..