Rohtash (I’m writing in third person because that’s what the cool kids do) has a challenging time writing a biography.

If you are like me (I know I am switching to first person; bear with me) and have read any quality literature or perused the Socrates section or quotes like “I am not what I think I am; I am not what you think I am; I am what I think you think I am” and scratched your head in confusion and said something profound like “okay” in return, limiting yourself to mere publications, professional skills, and accolades presents an irksome challenge. Is there anywhere my work has appeared? Yes. Have I been found wanting? Sure. Am I a name under a published text in some magazine no one reads? Certainly not.

Storytelling is a thing of beauty, and things of beauty don’t ask for attention. If a kid falls (they do all the time) and a song of tears wells up in their eyes, so you make up a story about how they stepped on an ant in hopes of distracting them for a moment from their pain. That is, in essence, what a storyteller is. He is not his accolades. He is the one who cares.

So if someone asks me, “Who you?” (questionable grammar), I would like to put on a straw hat and go, “Arrrrrr…”