No, not me. Real authors. The ones who write books.
You’ve undoubtedly read the short bios on book jackets, right? Although, sometimes, they’re located in the final pages, too. They give a brief synopsis of the writer, point out where they live and what they’ve done. Honest to god, some of them are just so bad they’re plain laughable, really. The kind of thing you’d find in a high school yearbook.
Who writes them is my question.
One I read stated the author enjoyed gardening and photography and caring for the animals at a local shelter. Intrigued and a little nauseated, I went to the Acknowledgements part, to see who the writer credited — or blamed, as the case may be. And among those mentioned were her kids — who were just so darn excited mommy had written a book. All right, pass the Pepto-Bismol.
Clearly, the Acknowledgements and About the Author came from the same twisted, sappy, cloying person. The writer, herself. Had I read those things first, I never, ever would’ve read the book. Which, amazingly, wasn’t bad.
Proving, without a doubt, you can’t believe everything you read.