The Page That Decides Whether Anyone Stays: Rebuilding My About Section With the Door Open

For years my About page was a polite lie. Not the facts — those were fine — but the voice. It read like a form letter from a bank. I had written it the way I thought a creative professional should sound: third person, plenty of adjectives, no actual person visible. Then, in early 2026, I did something slightly uncomfortable. I rewrote the whole thing in public, posting drafts on my site with a note that said: 'This is rough. Tell me where you get bored.'

The problem with a CV in disguise

Most About pages are CVs wearing a cardigan. They list credentials, name-drop clients, and use words like 'passionate' and 'multidisciplinary' as if they were personality traits. They are accurate, tidy, and completely useless at helping a stranger decide whether to email you.

The reason is simple: we write them for the version of ourselves we think clients want. We forget that the person reading is probably tired, has twelve tabs open, and wants to know two things. Can you do the work? And are you going to be a nightmare to deal with?

That is not a CV question. It is a doorway question.

What changed when I stopped polishing alone

The first draft I published was not brave. It was mostly the old one with a few contractions. I asked for feedback in a plain text box at the bottom of the page. Seven people replied. One said, 'I still don't know what you actually want to be hired for.' Another said, 'The bit about the failed puppet show made me trust you.' A third asked why I kept saying 'we' when it was clearly just me.

That last one stung. It was also correct. I had been hiding behind a plural pronoun because 'we' sounded more established. But I am not a studio with a reception desk. I am one person with a kettle and a slightly unreliable printer. Pretending otherwise made the page less convincing, not more.

Voice: write like you talk, then tidy

The best About pages sound like the person has just sat down opposite you. That does not mean rambling. It means using the words you would actually use, then cutting the ones that only exist to impress.

I replaced 'Drew Chapman is a multidisciplinary creative practitioner with over a decade of experience' with 'I'm Drew. I make websites, print things, and the occasional wonky illustration.' Same information, roughly. Much easier to read.

I also allowed one small, true imperfection. Mine is the puppet show. I spent three months building a cardboard theatre for a local festival and it collapsed on opening night. I mention it because it is funny, because it is real, and because it tells you something about how I work: I finish things, even when they wobble. Do not invent a failure. But if you have a small, honest one that shows character, it can do more work than another sentence about 'attention to detail'.

Proof: don't just say it, show it

An About page cannot carry your whole portfolio. It should not try. But it can give one or two concrete proofs that you are not making it all up. A link to a project. A number that means something. A specific client type.

My old page said I had 'extensive experience working with clients across multiple sectors'. My new page says I have made websites for a bakery, a parish council, and a small theatre company, and that the bakery site still gets compliments. That is not a brag. It is evidence. It also gives the reader a route into the work without forcing them to hunt through a menu.

Place: let people know where you are

This is a UK-specific point, but it applies anywhere. Saying where you are gives people context. I work from a desk near the window in my flat, which means I am used to video calls, I can meet in person if you are nearby, and I am very familiar with the sound of the kettle. It is not a full address. It is a signal that there is a real person on the other end.

Place also helps with trust. If you are hiring someone for a local project, you want to know they understand the area. If you are hiring from abroad, you want to know their time zone. A single sentence covers both.

Permission: give them a way in

The end of an About page is not a full stop. It is an invitation. Mine used to finish with 'Please do not hesitate to contact me for further information.' That is the written equivalent of a locked door with a sign saying 'Enquiries'.

Now it says: 'If you have got something similar in mind, email me. I will reply within two working days.' It is specific. It is human. It tells the reader what happens next.

The before and after

Here is the old opening, from the polished alone version:

Drew Chapman is a creative professional with a strong background in digital and print media. He has worked with clients across multiple sectors and is passionate about delivering high-quality results.

And here is the current one:

I'm Drew. I make websites, print things, and the occasional wonky illustration. I have been doing it for about ten years, mostly for small UK businesses and arts organisations. I work from a desk near the window in my flat, which means I am very familiar with the sound of the kettle. If you want to see the sort of thing I do, start with the bakery site or the parish newsletter project. If you have got something similar in mind, email me. I will reply within two working days.

The second one is not perfect. It is a bit informal. It uses 'wonky'. But it is a doorway. You can see the person, the work, and the next step.

The doorway framework

If you are rewriting your own About page, here is the simple version I now use. Four questions, in this order:

1. Who is on the other side? Write one sentence in first person. Your name, what you make, and one detail that makes you sound like a human.
2. What can they expect? Give one or two pieces of proof. A project link, a client type, a number that is true.
3. Where are you? One sentence about place. It can be a city, a region, or simply 'a desk near the window'. Keep it safe and vague if you prefer.
4. What happens next? Tell them how to get in touch and what you will do. 'Email me and I will reply within two working days' is worth more than a contact form with no promise.

You can do this in an afternoon. You can also do it in public, which is what I did. The public part was not necessary, but it was useful. It stopped me polishing the life out of the page. A doorway does not need to be perfect. It needs to open.