There’s a small thumbnail photo of me in my “About Me” section of my blog. It’s the same photo I use on Facebook. It’s the same photo I used for an online dating site. If I had my way, it would be the only photo of me on Earth. I am comfortable with this photo. It’s small and black and white. I’m not smiling so big, with so much fake, that my lips have disappeared. Nor do I look like Queen Grump. There’s no double chin. My eyes are actually open.
Yesterday, my X, who’s a pretty good judge of this stuff, said, Get a new photo.
My new fella, the guy I met through the online dating sight, has said, I really was never attracted to that photo.
And so I begin the quest for a professional author photo.
What I don’t want:
1. Serious literary artist peeking through the top of her glasses.
2. Serious literary artist leaning against a tree, arms crossed, conveying her passion for the environment.
3. Cute wedding-type pic with my hands folded under my face.
4. A trying-to-be-a-hipster photo — funky clothes, mod hair, posed in front of an old porch with the paint coming off in big flakes.
5. Serious literary artist reading Tolstoy. I’ve never read Tolstoy. My apologies to Tolstoy.
What I do want: