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An unflinching memoir by the woman who has helped thousands of people uncover their creative inspiration.
In Floor Sample, the author of the international bestseller The Artist's Way weaves an honest and moving portrayal of her life. From her early career as a writer for Rolling Stone magazine and her marriage to Martin Scorsese, to her tortured experiences with alcohol and Hollywood, Julia Cameron reflects in this engaging memoir on the experiences in her life that have fueled her own art as well as her ability to help others realize their creative dreams. She also describes the fascinating circumstances that led her to emerge as a central figure in the creative recovery movement-a movement that she inaugurated and defined with the publication of her seminal work, The Artist's Way.
Julia Cameron is a passionate and wry observer of the world, and her account of her life as a self-described "floor sample" for all she teaches in her brilliant books on creativity will surprise, entertain, and inspire all her many fans as well as anyone interested in an absorbing literary memoir.
to,” I lectured myself, and the long days in the empty house did take getting used to. I was also running up against something unexpected. Martin didn’t like it when I saw my old friends—many of them men. As it happened, I didn’t have very many friends in Los Angeles, and those whom I did have were men, chiefly fellow Rolling Stone writers—a lot of bad boys, I had to admit. When I would go to lunch with these cohorts, I would inevitably drink the afternoon away. Martin didn’t like my drinking. It
than that. What I needed, Martin decided, were a few trustworthy girlfriends. With that in mind, he introduced me to Dita Sullivan, an astrologer. Dita quickly cast some charts to augur Martin’s and my compatability. We were made for each other, she declared. Our aspects were overwhelmingly favorable. With such optimism to recommend her, Dita quickly became a close friend. Unlike me, she was not a drinker, and her presence tended to moderate my behavior—at least for a while. From Dita’s
Street at the Caffe Reggio. I would sip a cappuccino and Domenica a hot chocolate. We would split a cannoli. Bleecker Street was filled with antiques shops, and there were children’s stores featuring toys and costumes tucked throughout the neighborhood as well. Nothing was better than the Village at Halloween. Jack-o’-lanterns sat in brownstone windows, witches and goblins roamed the streets. Domenica had a fine collection of stick horses and could select a fresh mount daily for our walks. We
just smart.” Being “just smart” had made me into an agnostic. I couldn’t believe in God as told to me by the nuns and priests. Surely there was something to their vocation that they were not telling us? Surely they believed in something more substantial than God on the silver screen? Every day in the school library, I read Paul Tillich and tried to fit his teachings to my life. Grappling with my spiritual turmoil, I looked for answers in the busy, seemingly happy lives of those all around me.
hammer and nails, I hung the dresses like paintings. The act seemed creative, not crazy. Next I checked the kitchen, which held some battered pots and pans, a small amount of silverware, and some ugly plates and bowls. The refrigerator was small but sturdy. I needed groceries and some sleep. Jet-lagged but determined to be grounded and sensible, I told myself groceries first—and then sleep. I locked the door and went down the two flights to the street. I turned left toward a small fenced park. I