After finishing my fourth book and sending it off to my lovely beta readers, I found myself thinking about where my love for writing began. At first, I thought about it practically—the first school assignment where I had to write a short story, the first actual manuscript I completed.
But that wasn’t where it began at all.
Growing up, we had family dinners with our grandparents and cousins once, sometimes twice, a month. As kids, we didn’t run off and play while the adults sat and talked. We had seats at the table with them. We broke bread together, listening to the stories that made our family who we were.
From olive groves in Italy to painting houses in America.
From raising children in the suburbs to starting businesses that would last for generations.
Stories that had us laughing and crying, refilling bowls of pasta and cups of wine.
My love for writing didn’t start when I opened a blank page for the first time. It started sitting around the people I love, being brought into their worlds.
I learned from those around me how to integrate backstory by planting a garden like our grandfather. How to create unimaginable worlds by parents who built businesses from the ground up. How to write characters that were broken and messy and funny but would do anything for family—because that’s how we were raised.
I learned to write by listening to the stories of those around me. And whether I’m creating epic fantasies or haunting mysteries, I want to carry the stories of those I love into new people and new worlds.
A Book I’m loving.
I’m reading Atonement by Ian McEwan, which follows a young girl whose misunderstanding leads to a lie that irrevocably alters the lives of those around her.
Spanning decades, it’s a powerful story about love, guilt, and whether storytelling can ever truly make amends for the past.
Thanks for reading along,
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