Why I Write
I write because I love to write; my pen runs smoothly on paper. Writing is the living record of my thoughts and emotions, a solace to me in moments of despair. Last night, for instance, in a moment of intense melancholia, I found myself thinking back to my trips to Italy visiting with my cousins, The La Camera Family, The Sposito Family, and The Cacciola Family. Rather than brood about what was and is no more, I started to write about my trip and how wonderful it made me feel. It seemed a natural way to express love for my family and for Italy, the country of their birth. Instead of sitting down at the computer, I took out a legal sized pad, the familiar yellow type, and poured out colors, sweet smells, starry skies and peace just as I remembered it. I was back in Sicily, stretched out in the sun, aware of only the beauty around me. There was beauty in the mountains, the clear blue skies, and the green Mediterranean Sea, where the fish played hide and seek with each other, much to my delight. I strolled quietly along the sand feeling like an Italian Countess, as pebbles clung to the bottom of my bare, sun kissed feet. I walked through terrains of sweet smelling flowers, so colorful, so vivid they took my breath away. Writing is the language of my thoughts and emotions. I write of my heroes and a thousand other matters connected with my life. I am not Virginia Woolf, George Orwell nor Jonathon Swift, but I am me and I write because it feels good. My books are not like Boccaccio's Decameron, nor Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, but like the works of the great masters, they are written down to assure my immortality.
