Emily

My father is Scottish by decent, born and raised in Argentina. My mother is half German, half British, grew up in Guatemala. I was born in a Spanish town in Northern Africa, grew up in England, and have lived outside of Minneapolis, Boston and Los Angeles since then. I had my first passport before I was three months old, had lived on three continents by the time I was four, and had been to 20 countries by the time I was eighteen.

That’s me: a hodgepodge of cultural influences, a child of the world, a connoisseur of airports, a pseudo-speaker of a score of different languages and a proficient speaker of none, I’ve been known for going great lengths to fit in but I’m finally just getting used to standing out.

I write a lot. I live in words. I read poetry. I understand and explain the world through stories.

As I see it some people blog as an addendum to everything they already say, others do it as an alternative for having to talk to people. I’m the latter. I write about the things I don’t want to talk about, but everyone keeps asking about (so that I only have to say it once), and about the things I really want to talk about but nobody wants to listen to. Topics range—they slither about and run down blind alleys. For the most part, they are: art, writing, life, love, God, India, the world, books, prayer, family, friendship, language, poetry, and a cave at the at the end of the world.

Obviously, this is just a blog. These posts are just posts. This is not my diary, wandering here will not make you privy to my deepest secrets. My soul is more or less firmly attached to my body and will not be put display anytime soon. I like to be taken seriously as much as the next gal, but this is best seasoned with a grain of salt and a lot of grace.

Los Angeles
September 2008