Emily Ott

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Her delicate little fingers flip open the gold plated latch on the timeworn chest to reveal pe...

“Hey there! It’s good to see you!” I say. “It’s good to be seen”, he replies. Interesting response, I think. Most people would just repea...

A few weeks ago, I opened a dialogue on Facebook regarding the artist’s process. I noticed that as an creator myself, I often get so wrap...

Yesterday I went to an amazing seminar on caring for the performer’s voice hosted by the Actor’s Equity Association. The day consisted of...

Homesick. I was a child the first time I encountered this feeling. It was my first night away from my bed and the pink comforter that alw...

As creative individuals, we know that the image of the troubled artist is often romanticized. We make judgments and write off emotional i...

Running can be numbing. With stinging wind, pink nose, white finger tips. Legs swing like a speedy pendulum. Faster, Faster, More! The be...

Curling irons burn fraying tips - brunette, blonde, charcoal. Faces painted pretty to match the touched up print. This is me. Is it? You ...

Apparently I’m late to the podcast craze, but I figure you can’t be a true New Yorker unless you have headphones in 99% of the time in pu...