The Delicate Art of the Perfect Author Bio & Other Useless Skills

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The authoress currently resides in a studio apartment above Sal’s Diner in New Brunswick, New Jersey. On Saturdays, she enjoys a long walks down New Brunswick’s’ brutally urban streets, which she regards as a cheaper, more visceral Brooklyn. Maybe it’s the ancient Italian men in the lawn chairs chain-smoking Camels; maybe it’s just the pollution. As you are reading this, she is probably sitting down to enjoy another cup of Sal’s shitty coffee and a thick stack of syrup-laden pancakes because to write is to suffer immensely and she has found that eating things that are completely lacking nutrients, ironically nourishes her soul.


After a long and wildly prolific career as an extra in 50 Cent music videos, she penned a series of graphic and experimental prose poems, including the cult-classic, This Isn’t The Notebook, Bitch, which confronts her marriage to literary wunderkind, Nicholas Sparks. At the age of 67, Repole-Sparks is back with All Your Novels Are the Same, a shocking expose of their tumultuous relationship. Penned entirely by hand and stained with crocodile tears, her latest installment is a tasteful and raw account of the challenges posed by the creative process.

The Repole-Sparks reside in North Carolina near a body of water of some kind, where circumstances beyond their control inevitably try to push them apart. However, much to the relief of their adoring public, they always seem to find each other again.


Whitney Repole is the author behind the two worst selling novels in American history, Pun-fully Yours and Harambe: The Beginning of the End of the Most Powerful Nation in the Known World. Her third novel bears a mind-numbing resemblance to the first two and belongs on display at Wal-Mart, next to the bargain trashcans and imitation FitBits. Voldemort Was Misunderstood & Other Collected Stories, is best described as one big long infomercial for the Devil, if the Devil were actually a jaded Literary Arts graduate shoveling down semi-burnt scrambled eggs whilst contemplating the pitfalls of Netflix, her student debt and whether or not her Instagram shows her truest self.


Story has it that after Panel, the authoress stumbled into Moe’s and Joe’s only to find Kanye West slumped over one of the back booths. She promptly offered him her Briny Melon Gose in the hopes that the musician would be revived by its soothing summery notes, which made her feel like she belonged in a room full of people drinking IPA’s, even though she knew herself to be an imposter. West began to protest, “We all know Sweetwater had the best gose of the year,” but Repole quieted him by shoveling $1 popcorn down his throat. They began to make out theatrically. Whitney called for the bartender to play “Wolves.”

It was 4:30 P.M.


It was the morning of her eleventh birthday when her fake Hogwarts letter arrived. The product of her parent’s late April Fool’s joke, Repole was forever changed by the treachery and the shock of being a normal human. Growing up in the shadow of her Muggledom, Repole has since penned a series of abstract novels that deal with her journey to be recognized as a witch by the magical community. Called a “raving lunatic” by some and a “convincingly naïve young woman” by others, the authoress currently lives in a Yurt in the Scottish Highlands, apparently on border that separates the hypothetical Hogwarts’ castle from the world as we know it. If she dies, she will be survived by a large flock of rather tame barn owls and a surprisingly large collection of household brooms.


After a 10 year hiatus, the critically acclaimed and controversial cook-book writer is back with another collection of hard-hitting recipes: Vegans Are Quitters: The Carnivore’s Guide To Winning. In collaboration with cultural icon, Guy Fieri and Food Network bad girl, Ina Garten, “Vegans Are Quitters” explores the hidden potential of unexpected meat sources such as the delicate and unexpected ‘Pigeon a La Mode’ which unfolds down the back of the throat like a wet sheepskin blanket and the challengingly chewy New York City Gutter Rat Pie, that scurries along your taste buds, sprinkling culinary waste and a plethora of Dark Age diseases as it is digested. The authoress divides her time between her miniature horse farm in Northern Maine and the Tuscan villa she shares with the ghost of Mario Batali.


Just when you thought it was too bad to get any worse this literary parodist who some have called “about as inspirational as the Bubonic Plague” is back with another one of her depressing, anti self-help books! Screw the life you’ve always wanted, now it’s time to slide slowly into the downward spiral you’ve always found to be deplorable. In How To Lose Everything You Hold Dear In Five Easy Steps: A Journey to Self-Loathing, the authoress expounds upon the perils (and delights) of gateway drugs, hook-up culture, the quest for the perfect candid Instagram, Seattle’s Underground Orca fighting ring and SmartCars. Repole’s comments on her work could not be included in this bio due to the fact that her mouth was full of Taco Bell’s Crunch Wrap Supreme when she was asked for a quote.


After spending three years with a family of traditional Vikings in Greenland, Repole has released her a prose-documentary, More Than Just Wood, whose genre itself redefines the 2016 Literary Scene. This genre-bending work excavates the secretive and often abusive relationship between Vikings and the trees they used for their “knarrs” or cargo ships. Repole is a modern day Lorax, giving voice to the thousands of trees that were abused and carved without regard for their feelings.

Repole lives in a log cabin in the Adirondacks with a retired Canadian lumberjack. When asked if she found her choice of home to be ironic, the authoress responded, “American trees may still be standing but they died a long time ago. The Pilgrims killed their natural spirit,” before grabbing an ax and retreating into the forest.


North America’s most indestructible and shameless Doctor of Literature is back with this year’s most purposefully overlooked work of academia, a dramaturgy entitled, Iambic Pentameter You Sneaky Sonofa. Over the course of the book’s 687 tightly kerned pages, Repole mangles the beautiful soliloquies and complex, linguistic pyrotechnics of the Bard with unmatched gusto. As far as theories go, most of hers are about as truthful and fact-based as Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop rants. Repole has made extensive efforts to further the rumor that the work was indeed done entirely by quill. Upon further examination, aforementioned quill was discovered to be just a curiously thin stalk of purple asparagus. We humbly suggest that the good Doctor retreat back to whatever non-organic grocery store she came from! The pretension of some people!


A great and terrible fire ravaged the authoress’s Oklahoma estate. Admist the ashes, the rubble and piles of strangely fire-retardant Cosmic Brownies, a rookie fireman unearthed a safe. Inside the safe was a finished manuscript (it doesn’t matter how it opened it, just keep reading). The fireman checked to see if anyone had noticed his discovery. Strangely, he was alone (the logistical probability of this is grossly unimportant). The manuscript was entitled, What Toby Keith Whispered In My Ear. The rookie fireman had a choice to make. He felt that he had prepared all his life for this moment (in reality he had bounced around from one ambition to the next and this whole fireman thing was probably a phase). The rookie fireman pulled a match from his jacket pocket (Why would a fireman have a match in an already burned down building? Because he had bad taste in irony? Because he always wanted to be prepared in case there was an Apple Cinnamon candle that needed lighting? Because the jacket wasn’t his?). The rookie fireman struck the match and brought it to the edge of the manuscript. Somewhere in the distance, “Beer for My Horses,” began to play softly. The rookie fireman shivered involuntarily at the beauty, of course.


If I Die, Tell Them I Was A Local: A Lesson in Wandering

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Whenever I travel, I am not simply content to be a visitor. I am always overcome with the desire to know a city, to be accepted into its folds. I want its rhythms to reside in the rafters of my brain. I want to wear its most charming cafés like charms on my wrist. I want its streets ingrained into the soles of my shoes. I want to spew its slang, cry out its colloquialisms, and hold its humor near the neurons that trigger tears from breathless laughter. I want to it to feel as familiar as Friday night football in my hometown, as intuitive as the tap of my fingers against my laptop keyboard.

And yet, in every new place I find myself death-gripping a complimentary map and bumble-fucking my way through the native tongue. Travel exposes my vulnerabilities, my shortcomings, my lack of sophistication, and the feeble remains of my four semesters of Italian. Four years ago, when I went to Paris for the first time, I wore a magenta North Face and paraded around the Eiffel Tower, my cheeks stuffed with Nutella crepes, like a tasteless, unnecessary exclamation point. Needless to say, the air of that otherwise magical city was polluted by the sneers French women threw me.

The foreign world somehow manages to slip through the sieve of me; when I’m abroad I am somehow always the dumbest person in the room, on street corner, in the restaurant. But this humbling is what makes travel so essential to me and so integral to my endeavor to live a robust life. As a creative person, I need paradigm shift. I need to be shocked out of my everyday complacency and thrown into a corner of the universe that I don’t begin to comprehend, that I don’t begin to fit into.

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The naïve, egocentric side of my brain wants to possess of all these places, to turn them into taxidermy heads that I can hang proud upon my wall. I am in such a hurry to share my travels with everyone. How easy it is to post something and say “Oh look where I’ve been! Look how cultured I am! Aren’t I just the neatest damn thing on your Instagram feed today?” It is so easy to pass traveling off in beautiful photographs, in clever captions, in blog posts.

Where the true difficulty and true merit of travel lies is in it’s exposure of our inner self, of the girl who talks to much, doubts too much, wouldn’t know minimalism if Alexander Wang suffocated her with his American cool and who gets extremely grumpy if she’s not given breakfast and strong coffee immediately after waking up. Not traveling turns me cagey and restless. Traveling strips me of sureness and sears me in the fire of something new. It renders me raw. Part of its marvel (and the majority of its melancholy) is that travel not only exposes me but it changes me, too.

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I am continually struck by a place’s ability to haunt me; how I can wander De 9 Straatjes (the Nine Streets) of Amsterdam once and suddenly the capillaries of my heart become canals filled with bruise-navy water, houseboats in gentle slumber, the sunny purr of Dutch, the whiz of bicycle spokes churning the air. Or how Prague returns to me like a best-loved bedtime story, luring me once more into a land of castles, spires and swan-filled rivers, leading me down winding lanes bathed in the rose glow of early evening, where later, much later, the echoes of raucous boys leaving the discotheque will ricochet off the stucco and into my sleeping ears.

Which is whywanderlust is such a tricky word for me. “Lust” implies that it can be quenched, you see and I sincerely doubt that my need for travel is capable of being satisfied.I want a future full of meanderings, fashion faux-pas, inescapable hungers and continual renovations to my soul and my perspective. But above all, I want to keep learning, to keep exposing myself the truly novel, the wonders of human existence, with a voracity that refuses to wane.