Because my immediate interests leaned more toward napping than writing, I was hard at work practicing clever bio introductions one afternoon when Son Two leaned over my shoulder. He was fourteen at the time, and therefore omniscient. Also, the world revolves around him, rotating on an axis made of pizza and chocolate bars.
“Are you gonna put that?”
“That part about your name.”
“It’s kind of an important item in a biography.”
“Oh.” Chewing noises sounded in my ear. “Aren’t you afraid somebody’s gonna find out it’s you?”
Nothing like a rousing pep talk from your own flesh to make you feel appreciated.
“That’s the idea. I want to get credit for the work I did.”
“Well, don’t use my name, okay?”
The only one left in the family willing to let me use her name in connection with mine is Lucy, the Dachshund, whom I bribe with bologna sandwiches and barbecue chips to guarantee loyalty. Ruling out family names, lame jokes, and references to obscure medical journals doesn’t leave much material. I got back to work.
“Amy Mullis wrote this piece. She lives in. . .”
“Mom! Don’t put where we live. My friends might figure out it’s us.”
I’m more familiar with the delete key than Simon Cowell is with dirty looks.
“Amy Mullis wrote this piece.”
“Can you use your last initial instead of your whole name?”
“Amy M. wrote this piece.”
“Piece of what?”
“Amy M. Wrote this.”
He rolled his eyes. If my tires worked that well I’d get a million miles on every one. “It sounds like it should be on a tombstone.”
“Okay, Smart Guy. What can I say in a three-line biography that won’t make me look dumb?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Just don’t send a picture.”