A Biography. Of sorts.
Robert Pobi has been a fulltime novelist for ten years. His first novel, Bloodman, was an international success, published in nineteen countries and fifteen languages, making the bestseller list around the world.
He lives in the country but spends a lot of time at his cabin, on a little lost lake in the mountains. When the cold starts chewing on the trees, he heads to a place he has on the beach where his nearest neighbor—a retired cop who shares the same first name—makes the best whiskey sour he has ever tasted.
He writes at a desk that was once owned by Roberto ‘God’s Banker’ Calvi, and has (or definitely doesn’t have) a collection of shrunken human heads (known as tsantsas in anthropological and collector circles) that continually freak out his housekeeper. He has too many fountain pens and is constantly taking notes in old-school Meade marble composition books.
Among his small group of friends, he is infamous for getting the only Buddhist monk in their ranks to yell at him (they were walking in the forest and debating the merits of meditation at the time—true story).
He uses Microsoft Word for Mac but misses Wordperfect, which is a pretty good indicator of his age.
Some of his favorite writers are Jimmy Breslin, Peter Benchley, Michael Crichton, Stephen Davis, William Faulkner, Morton Freedgood, John Galligan, Thomas Harris, Ernest Hemingway, Christopher Hitchens, Andrew Kaplan, Rudyard Kipling, Glenn Meade, Seth Morgan, David Morrell, Jeff Raines, Trevanian, and Mark Twain.
His favourite books on writing are The Joy of Writing: A Guide for Writers Disguised as a Literary Memoir by Pierre Berton and Lessons from a Lifetime of Writing: A Novelist Looks at his Craft by David Morrell.
Due to his reclusive nature, he does not do Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, or any other social media. Much to his agent’s irritation, he does not own a phone. And he rarely answers email.
An alternate version and earlier draft of his biography…
Robert Pobi was an assistant goat dentist before becoming a flavor consultant for a wax crayon company. After the bottom fell out of the magenta melon market, he hitchhiked around Antarctica for a couple of years, visiting the vineyards and sampling local delicacies made with snow and reindeer hair. After that, he was a bowling instructor for the cliff-dwelling Indians of Minsk, a career that left him with an acute fear of coffee filters, a poor sense of timing, and a prosthetic sneeze. He operates the smoothie machine at a shelter for battered mob accountants when he is not teaching yodel lip-reading to political science students or giving seminars on speed procrastination. On the weekends he manages the New York Halibut Rental Service & Things-That-Rhyme-With-Torschlusspanik Museum. He once dreamt that he was six-foot-one (which is a full inch shorter than his six-foot-two) and has a service monkey named Opu who likes to lick the fuzzy part of the kiwi while listening to Abba at blistering volumes. Pobi’s ancestry is mostly real, partially anecdotal, and entirely apocryphal. In the fall, he occasionally hunts Peruvian fruit bats with a baseball cannon. Henry Kissinger once mistakenly asked him if he was correct (or correctly asked him if he was mistaken—neither remembers with any certainty; they had been playing Yahtzee all night and were really tired). His favorite film has not yet been made and, unfortunately, he lost his sense of humor in a freak accident while driving golf balls in the shower. Pobi often confuses sarcasm with irony, a habit that absolutely everyone thinks is cute. His greatest handicap is that he can only tell time between noon and seven past on the even dates of the month if they end with either a 3 or a 5. He has a relatively strong relationship with four of the vowels and is working on patents for dehydrated water, a device for shaving coconuts, and a soup hammock.
He also writes bestselling novels.