My First Biography

A lot of you know that I do some professional writing outside of this blog. I’ve had a couple plays published among other things, but I’ve always wanted to give being a biographer a try. A huge influence in my life was the late Steve Jobs, a polarizing visionary who significantly affected the 20th and 21st centuries. Unfortunately, right around the time I was shopping my Steve Jobs bio around, Walter Isaacson released his own so-called “authorized” version of Mr. Jobs life, and just like that, the market for my book was gone

Even though I may not be an “authorized biographer” or a “legal citizen of the United States” I thought you might still like to read an excerpt from my own Steve Jobs biography. I really took my research skills to a new level with this project, and I think we can all agree that what my work lacks in authorization, it makes up for in ambition. And really, isn’t that what Steve would’ve wanted? Anyway, here’s the first few pages so you can decide for yourself…

Steve: The Untold Story

Steven Paul Jobs: The Boy Who Lived

by Dustin Charles Heveron: The Boy Who Owes a Lot of Money to His College for a Writing Degree That He’s Making Questionable Use of at Best

Chapter 1

Mr. and Mrs. Gates of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

The Gates had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Jobs. Mrs. Jobs was Mrs. Gates’ sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Gates pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unGatesish as it was possible to be. The Gates knew that the Jobs had a small son, too, but they had never seen him. The boy was another good reason for keeping the Jobs away; they didn’t want Bill mixing with a child like that.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he didn’t seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at a cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should’ve known.”

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Wozniak,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London underground. Well — give him here, Wozniak — we’d better get this over with.

Dumbledore took Steve in his arms and turned to the Gates’ house.

“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Wozniak. He bent his great, shaggy head over Steve and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Wozniak let out a howl like a wounded dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Wozniak, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it…poor little Steve off ter live with Muggles.”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but a grip on yourself, Wozniak, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered…

“You’re a wizard, Steve” Woz whispered at the child as they said their good-byes.

…Well there you go, there’s a lot more to it than that, obviously, but still, it’s pretty good right? I actually found so much material during my research that I ended up with almost seven full books of stories about young Steve and friends. Maybe I’ll start a kickstarter to see if I can get them published.

Until then, live long and prosper (that’s a new catch phrase I just invented).

Play on,
Dustin

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