If you're reading this, that means that a) you love writing and English nerd-ery as much as I do; b) you're looking for someone with more than six years of experience, an undergraduate degree in Professional Writing, and a full-fledged body of work to ghost write that long-awaited memoir; or c) you know what great writing is, and you've come to find it.
With the official launch of EmmaKatRichardson.com, I intend to dive headfirst into the world of cyber-age portfolios. Visit the Writing page, to browse through several of my published pieces (including celebrity interviews, album, film, and performance reviews, personal essays, literary narratives, and more) and writing samples. Emmazon Nation is my offiical blog, the Links page shows you the sites of my friends, associates, and idols, and the About page... well, I should hope that's self-explanatory.
Like what you see? Feel free to contact me.
19, May, 1536. A day that will live in infammy, as evidenced by its continued recognition 476 years following those monumental events. A queen of England was executed on this day - an unprecedented blow struck in the face (or neck, rather) of women seeking and holding power, in an era less than reconciled to this very notion.
Several days ago, in the middle of the night, I sat up suddenly in the bed; the kind of brilliant “ah-ha!” moment that causes hip sprains in the elderly and scrambled terror-fleeing in the cat. However, before providing too many self-congratulations on the realization that had just come together, I reached for my Blackberry to hop on the ‘net and double check my movie-to-real life math. Lo and behold, late night logic prevailed.
Courtney Love did not kill Kurt Cobain. Let’s put this idiotic, juvenile, and completely imbecilic idea to bed right now. Or better yet, let’s take it out back and send a bullet ricocheting through its skull, since this is clearly the outcome conspiracy theorists of the most unpolished degree want so badly to be true. But that’s the funny thing about truth: one generally needs little things like solid facts – not disgusting, barely contained misogyny – to back up any claim therein.
Once during seventh grade, three girlfriends arrived for a sleepover at my house, where the better part of the evening was spent not giving each other garish makeovers, but instead trying to convince my overprotective, God-fearing mother to let us rent a copy of The Craft. A real stickler for the 1x1 inch wisdom of parental advisories, my mother was weary of the film’s R rating – this could very well have been a story whose plot revolved around Caligula-like decadence for the pre-teen set.
On October 3rd, Amanda Knox walked out of court a free woman, her whole life finally returned and laid bare at her feet. As her verdict was pronounced and the swarm of cameras shifted their lenses center stage, she wilted into a mess of tears upon learning of her acquittal. This after what many deemed a courageous defense, delivered in near-perfect Italian.
ust the other day, I quipped on Twitter that Thomases Cromwell, Wolsey, and More comprised the 'Tommy Trio of Terror' on The Tudors. Alliteration is always an enjoyable pasttime to pursue, but so is parallel seeking amongst art imitating life.
I'm never one to be outdone. In-done, perhaps, but that usually depends on how many drinks I've had. Anywho, since every media outlet on the planet - and a couple on Uranus - have compiled a "best of" list of some sort, I decided it was time to quit shoving the following into the faces of several unwitting, pity-worthy souls, and string together a Best Of list of my own. Here, I present to you this day, the very best short-infomercials of the decade.
Just prior to clocking out, today at my day job (which, ironically, is working the night shift), I called a meeting with my boss and shift supervisor. The issue? Not replacement coffee filters for the break room, or how to coordinate garments of wretched hideousness for the upcoming Ugly Sweater Holiday party. No, this meeting’s premise revolved around one very unusual subject: Arab-American men. Or, more succinctly, Arab-American male customers, and their utter lack of decent regard for the female employees who are attempting to assist them.
But first, if you please, some background. Like a lot of my fellow artisans/poor white trash 20-somethings, I work a day job to support my ridiculous habit of dreaming about one day achieving Margaret Atwood-like ascendency (even Nora Roberts-like ascendency would probably do). Unlike a lot of my fellow homies from the Negative Bank Balance Allegiance, I have a day job that I enjoy, am positively challenged by, and make a healthy living wage at, with a company that not only respects and values its employees, but downright pampers them, truth be told. Having roots in a turbulent, capitalistically damaged suburban background, with a long-nurtured viewpoint on office employment as the epitome of misery incarnate, I sometimes have to stop, blink stupidly a few times, and wonder which karmic deity I must have finger-fucked subconsciously to turn up in such a fortunate position.
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