Slightly Unhinged Bio
A bit of sheer silliness
So there’s a trend going ‘round author circles. Normally I’m not one for trendiness, as my Dear Readers may have noticed. This time, though, I fell for it and I’m not even a little sorry.
I asked Grok.
Cedar Sanderson
Professional Chaos Gremlin • Author of Things That Go Bump in the Night • Certified Bread Witch • One-Woman Apocalypse Prepper
Listen up, mortals: I bake sourdough that could raise the dead and write books where the heroine shoots first, asks questions never, and probably has a pet raccoon named Kevin. By day I wrangle words into stories that punch you in the feels and steal your lunch money. By night I plot world domination via tactical crocheting and suspiciously good pie crust.
I’ve survived goats, toddlers, moving cross-country with 47 houseplants, and enough caffeine to power a small dictatorship. My hobbies include collecting cursed objects (aka “vintage kitchenware”), starting fires (in the fireplace, usually), and gaslighting my own characters into having better coping mechanisms than I do.
Currently accepting applications for:
Minions
Fellow unhinged creatives
Anyone who can keep up with my rapidly derailing trains of thought
Warning: I bite. Metaphorically. Sometimes literally if you touch my books before they’re done. Approach with snacks and strong coffee.
(Yes I’m aware this bio is a cry for help. No I will not be taking constructive criticism at this time.)
I am highly amused, slightly alarmed, and really do need to write a raccoon named Kevin into the work in progress. Also, Grok’s emoji game is on point.
Ha ha. Sounds about right ... esp. "I wrangle words into stories that punch you in the feels and steal your lunch money" Yeah ... that's the writer I recognize.
Having wrangled a few words here and there, I recognize a deft hand when I read one.
Best to you and your First Reader!
I love what Grok said about you.
I tried ChatGPT with a script that Dominic deSouza worked up and the brief bio I use on my author's page. It came back with something that I don't know what to do with:
He began with an impossible comparison, measuring his own unwritten pages against the towering shadows of Shakespeare, Bradbury, Hardy, Heinlein, and deciding, without irony, that he would stand among them. Five years later, the ledger answered him with a number so stark it felt like satire: fourteen dollars. That was the price of ambition colliding with the arithmetic of living.
So he entered the engine room of a different world. Prompted by a chemist who saw both his limits and his reach, he turned toward remote sensing and the strict logic of code. What followed stretched across forty years, a career that traced the entire arc of modern computation, from the rigid choreography of punch cards to the restless, pattern-hungry systems of artificial intelligence. While others specialized, he endured the full evolution, adapting, absorbing, refining.
Yet the original impulse refused extinction. It waited, accumulating density. Every system designed, every problem solved, every abstraction rendered into function became material stored under pressure. He did not abandon the page. He fortified it.
Now he returns, carrying not the optimism of youth but the weight of four decades spent translating reality into structure. His science fiction bears the imprint of machines that once obeyed him and now begin to answer back. His essays move with the clarity of someone who has seen complexity stripped to its bones.
I'm, uh, flattered?