My name is Dion Burn, and if you think that that disclosure is a compromise to my personal security, well, I haven’t seen that horse in years. I live in Henrico County, Virginia, which covers the city of Richmond, the capitol, on three sides. The city ceded from the county a couple hundred years ago, I think, and Henrico is still pissed. They won’t even share a bus service, and only one of them–the city–has it. I am over fifty, and I commute by bike. I am (for money) what in the old days (’90’s) was called a library clerk. Just call me that–the new title signifies nothing but a bureaucratic simplification. I have three teenage kids. I see them a couple times a week. They’re the best thing I have.
I have been a lot of things for pay, but never a writer, which I am (mostly) uncomfortable with calling myself, though it’s the activity I have most consistently maintained. If I’m good at it, credit practice and reading; if I’m not, well, hey, I’m an amateur–there’s my ass and all the bases covered for you. I have lived here all my life, minus the first six months, half in the West End of the county, half in the city, with the Richmond half between the two quarters in the Tuckahoe district of Henrico. I want to live in the city again. I’m loathe to call myself a Southerner, having, though born in Virginia, Pittsburgh stock. (So, yeah, I root for the Quadruple-A Pirates.)
I read. I like scotch and Scotland–been there a few times. About a third of the books I read are written by and about Scots. I am half-Scottish, but I don’t know from where in Scotland. I would love to be in love, but the last burn is still healing. I’ll write till it’s healed, or at least scarred over. It should be a heck of a scar, the way I pick at it.
December 8, 2011 (Revised slightly October 25, 2012)