BIO #1

Thaddeus Gunn would rather do many things other than write a short bio: Dip a hangnail in lemon juice, eat a hair sandwich; or belly-flop into a vat of live, wriggling porcupines for example. He’s written some nonfiction stuff that’s been published and some that won a prize and some other stuff just for money. This is the third time he’s been asked to write a short bio for the workshop directory, and he has totally phoned it in every time, so why should this time be different? He lives in Seattle. 

BIO #2

Thaddeus Gunn was born at nine minutes after midnight with a caul over his face. Virginia Coffee, the delivery nurse, said so. She was a friend of his parents. “You gotta watch this one”, she said. “He’s gonna be special.” “Like ‘double jointed’ special or ‘unquenchable thirst for blood’ special?” they asked. She said nothing, just slowly raised her eyebrows and dropped her jowls, her pallid face becoming a mute kabuki; a silent augur of the infant’s singular fate.  Fifty-some years later, he is still waiting for either a celestial gardyloo or magical bonanza to punctuate his prosaic existence.  

BIO #3

My name is Thaddeus Gunn. 

My work has appeared in several magazines. It has appeared on t-shirts and table tents. It has appeared on the backs of cereal boxes. It has appeared in fire and in ice, and in the eyes of a poet at sunset.

My work has appeared on Broadway, and in major motion pictures. It has appeared spontaneously on stone walls in Beirut. It has appeared in the hearts of children, revealed by sonogram.

It has appeared before the Supreme Court, where it submitted testimony germane to Schmuck v. United States, [489 US 705, 1989].

My work has appeared to pilgrims in the desert, giving succor to those who travail and are sorely burdened, urging them onward without knowing that their destination was Las Vegas.

My work has appeared to set its face like flint against an array of acrimonious authorities.

It has appeared flitting across the fields of electron microscopes.

It has appeared in a 15th century broadloom linen.

It has appeared astride a horse in the dark of the night, storm-beaten and sick of heart, pleading for sanctuary at the door of an alpine cottage, only to be denied.

It has appeared at Seder, joking awkwardly that the door was open and there was an extra plate and hey, is that apple sauce?

It has appeared in a dream along with my mother, a snake wearing a vest and rolling a donut, and several standard Jungian archetypes.

My work has appeared in the footnotes of the DSM-IV.

My work has appeared in print, each vowel a blind and bloodied soldier with foul hand, desirous of the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; each word a cohort that grabs by the silver beard your reverent fathers, dashing each head against a wall; each paragraph a legion of ears to hear your mad mothers howl with grief; each page a century, taking the naked infants by the hundred, spitting them, and leaving them wriggling on the pike.

I live in Seattle, Washington.