#autobiographer

If you have a book you’d like to promote (yours or if you’re arranging a blog tour for an author), for free, take a look at Saturday Spotlights. Please note that the spotlight is more about you as an author rather than the book itself, i.e. the readers of this site learning about you and being inspired to buy your book rather than a ‘hard’ sell. There are links to previous spotlights on the…

Complementing the author spotlights I ran from 2011 to 2016, today’s Saturday Spotlight, the eighth, is of Rosemary Johnson. If you would like to take part in a spotlight, take a look at Saturday spotlights. From childhood, Rosemary Johnson was one of those who ‘always wanted to write’ and to have a book published, but, as years rolled by, never got around to it. In her teens, she scribbled in…

Check out my book review of Fierce and Delicate: Essays on Dance and Illness, by Renée K. Nicholson

By Katherine Itacy Genre(s): Memoir; Dancer Autobiography Synopsis: Fierce and Delicate is Renée Nicholson’s love letter to the art of dance. The memoir details the unrelenting and often unrealistic requirements of ballet dancers, the competitiveness and cattiness exhibited by so many in the field, the joy and pride Nicholson so often felt while rehearsing and performing, and the sheer agony…

So I wake up at five in the afternoon and rolled out of bed. I proceed to get dressed, a nice skirt and some leggings, my favorite shirt. Afterwards, I pick up my guitar and teach myself how to play the complex picking from my favorite song. While I have my acoustic in my lap, I write a few verses to a song in my music book. I put up my guitar and sit on my floor, noticing the canvases I had recently purchased. I take one I had opened when I got it for Christmas that I never used. I open dark gray paint and paint directly onto the canvas, a curved line of seemingly black paint on the canvas. And suddenly the curved line on the canvas is a bird. While I am furiously painting, blending colors, being careful not to get paint anywhere, I start thinking. The thoughts start forming lines in a poem, so I rush onto my feet and stumble over to my vanity where I left my thousandth journal. I open the pages and write without stopping. I am lost, and when it is over, I question what happened. I crawl on hands and knees back to my paints and realize that I am eternally a multi-genre artist.

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