Instead, I'm supposed to tell you about me. Hobbies, likes, dislikes, etc. Apparently readers are fascinated by authors' private lives. My problem is, I can't imagine what on earth to tell you about, nor why you'd be interested. I mean, my life is pretty much like many, many other people's.
Today I picked apples with my kids. Later, I peeled, seeded, and strained tomatoes in preparation for making sauce. Then, I went to the mall, bought things I most certainly could have lived without, and came home to turn 10 lbs of baker's-grade Honeycrisps into applesauce. As I write this I'm heating the water to finish the canning.
On the other hand, I'm trying to figure out how much it would cost to charter a corporate jet from Austria to Bangor, Maine. It's a minor plot detail for Sequel #1, but I like to get these things right. In my head I'm imagining tomorrow's installment for my novel-in-tweets, and figuring out how I can possibly incorporate fireworks into an epic showdown in the underworld... isn't that stuff a lot more interesting?
But the applesauce is delish.