I am currently enjoying two college writing classes: one in which I am beginning a manuscript of dance-related (sort of–I am taking a long leash on the theme) memoir essays for my senior thesis which I hope in another six months will become a complete book and another in which I will be writing experiential papers about my life for college credit (a core LEAP class that is simultaneously loved and reviled by all). So it has been hard to post regularly, and seemingly unnecessary with all of our great new contributors!, because I am always writing or reading under harsh deadline.
However, last week I read a brilliant memoir by Maxine Hong Kingston and since I have been recommending it to everyone I see in person, man/woman, feeling fine/melancholy/distraught, I thought I would let you all in on it here. It set my hair on fire, in a good way, and definitely is not unrelated to many of the recent posts on Dd, in dealing with the reality of life, family expectations, and vocation versus myths and dreams that make us all artists.
Do yourself a favor. Read this book!