C. K. Conners

C. K. Conners was born in that one city near that one town in that one state where he’s lived his entire life. He is known by some as a hopeless romantic, a wearying wit, a formidably fluent fantasist, but above all, a foolish optimist.

When he’s not writing about himself in the third person, this what’s-his-name can be found flying in his private jet to exotic places, wine tasting with international business moguls, or philosophizing in robes and sandals on the steps of academia with fellow, curious-minded pupils—or, to put it more accurately, one can usually assume with confidence that on any given day Conners is locked in his room, wearing holey sweatpants and tattered moccasins, rocking a bedhead hairdo that would make Einstein jealous, sitting hunched over a blank piece of paper, and carving thereon the chicken scratch hieroglyphs he hopes to one day pass off as novels.

If he were, in any way, an interesting person, perhaps more than this could be relayed. But, alas, he is about as common as a scraped knee, and equally agreeable.

CKConners.com