Write about myself? Why me?

It is the nature of being a writer attempting to sell oneself and one's work that eventually, you will have to write about yourself. Or hire/bribe/convince other people to write brilliant things about you, but that's a different matter entirely.

Bios are hard. Why, I'm not exactly sure. It's been suggested that it's because we're not used to writing about ourselves in that manner. Third person, objective, trying to communicate necessaries with our own particular style or sense of humor or ... it's just hard.

But I think I've got it, or something that will work for now. I'm going with this:

What's in a pseudonym? A writer by any other name called would make words as sweet. So S. L. Gray would, were she not S. L. Gray called.

But then how would you find her books?

S. L. Gray is a fantasy author (urban, epic and otherwise) transplanted from many places to the not-so-wilds of northern California. A storyteller for as long as she can remember, she's tamed her magpie-like attention span, somewhat, and dedicated herself to writing stories other people might enjoy as much as she does.

She is also, as you might have guessed, a huge fan of Shakespeare. She has done theatre on both coasts. She makes beaded boxes and jewelry and is a fiber artist. She loves words in all sorts of languages, knows her way around a computer and was once an EMT.

She did mention those magpie interests were *mostly* tamed, right?

She can be found on her blog, Words of Gray (http://wordsofgray.blogspot.com/), on Twitter at wordsofgray or on Facebook as S.L. Gray.

And, because I've gotten through tweaking Chapter 10, here's another snippet for you.

Enjoy!

----

     Twelve city blocks passed in a blur, mostly because I tried to keep busy by not counting the sidewalk lines we stepped over. Ah, superstition, rearing its head again. I was also determinedly not listening to the mental clock ticking down the seconds of a very short future. Twenty-four hours gone already and no way to get them back.

     I studied faces as we walked, making brief eye contact with everyone we passed. I kept a running tally of who looked away first. Who blushed and smiled like they thought I might be flirting. Which ones looked like they might have it in them to hook a blood magic curse under my skin.

     Violet tugged my hand. "This is it." She wrapped her arms  around herself. "Can't see it anymore," she said, "but I can still feel it."

     I could feel it too, though I couldn't have pointed out the source of my dis-ease or named the exact emotion it stirred. I wanted to run as much as I felt like I had to stay. No, not stay. I wanted to get off the sidewalk and into the street. My feet moved without my permission and I stepped off the curb.

     Vi got in my way. Hands on my chest, feet in the soggy gutter, eyes so wide I could fall into them. Half a second later, a bus thundered by, the driver's hand heavy on the horn. Vi's hair sprang up in a whirlwind dance around her shoulders. The thin end of a curl tickled my cheek.   

     "Don't," she said. "Don't walk away from me." She frowned, bit her lip, and fiddled with the collar of my coat before looking up again. "It's not safe."