I read hundreds of bios a year.
Some are delightful.
Most are insufferable.
The problem is that too many writers think the bio is a final performance — a résumé in disguise, a place to show and prove they belong. Sorry! It isn’t. And the more you try to impress me, the faster I stop reading.
So, this is what I hate — and what I love — to know about you:
Stop Self-Engrandizing!
Please don’t call yourself “renowned,” “emerging,” “widely published,” or anything else that sounds like a title you (or your mum) awarded yourself. If you’re doing good work, it will show in your submission. Don’t try to pre-convince me. It doesn’t work on my kids, and far less on you.
Don’t List Every Online Publication You’ve Ever Been In!
Unless your work has appeared in print, in a journal with an editorial board and actual paper and ink, it’s probably best left out. I don’t mean that as a slight to digital magazines — some are excellent — but the listing habit has become compulsive. A good writer can trust the work to stand on its own.
Don’t Mention Every “Forthcoming” Piece — Unless It’s a Book!
Unless there’s a signed contract and a publication date for a book — a real one, not a self-published PDF — I don’t need to know about it. A bio is not a fantasy forecast. It should reflect what’s solid, not what’s hoped for.
Don’t Tell Me What You Read or Who Inspires You!
I don’t care. I really don’t. We all read and are inspired — some with books, others with porn. It doesn’t make us special. Saying you read Anne Carson or adore Raymond Carver tells me nothing about you — and worse, it often sounds like name-dropping. I hate literary vampirism. Your influences will be clear in your work. Let them live there.
Don’t Brag. Be Humble.
If your bio sounds like a sales pitch, I’ll assume the writing needs a crutch. I’m not here to be sold something. I’m here to read. Keep your tone neutral. I’m much more drawn to a writer who underplays than one who postures.
And here’s what I do want to know:
Tell Me What You Do — Your Profession, Your Background.
Are you a factory worker? A stay-at-home father? A former linguist, a current bookseller, a retired dentist, a former drug dealer? These details tell me about your world — and that matters far more than your awards. Mention your education if you’d like. Keep it brief, and keep it real.
Tell Me Where You Live (If You’re Comfortable).
Geography grounds you. It makes you a lightning rod for certain stories. If you live in a coastal town in Portugal or a basement flat in Birmingham, say so. It’s not about exoticism — it’s about context. A single sentence about where you are adds more dimension than six named publications.
Tell Me About Your Dog, Cat, or Your Apple Tree.
I’m not joking. “She lives with two old Labradors.” “He tends an apple tree that hasn’t bloomed in five years.” These kinds of lines stay with me. They’re small, domestic, memorable. They tell me you’re human — not a literary machine trying to optimize exposure.
The best bios I’ve ever read have been modest. Short. Grounded.
They don’t list — they locate.
They don’t posture — they offer.
Remember: you’re not auditioning. You’re introducing yourself. The writing is the audition.
Trust that. Trust yourself.
