I remember the day I decided I was going to be a writer. I was ten years old, it was February and Battipaglia, Italy was my home. Every February we would celebrate Carnevale, a three day festival that comes before lent. During this time people dress up in costumes and take merriment into the streets and children go to school in fancy dress. Each region of Italy has their own mask the mask for Naples is a clown dressed in black and white called Pulcinella. Something in me clicked that day, a spark of an idea and I had to get it down. I asked my nonna for a few blank sheets of paper and I disappeared to my room. The third time i went back for more paper, I was asked what I was doing, to which I announced I was being a writer. Creating worlds with words became fascinating to me, I felt like a magician, where once there was nothing, suddenly I had living breathing (all be it in my head) characters, places and events. my love for writing never left me and although I have dipped in and out of it over the years, I am now very invested in the craft and the statement I made then is just as true now. I am a writer and those early scribblings live in the same yellow folder they’ve lived in since they were first conceived of. From time to time i pull that folder out and smile at the little girl with big dreams.
