Camilla Trinchieri
ON WRITING
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Writing My Way Home, an essay by Camilla Trinchieri
I left Rome in the summer of 1980, eager to make a new life for myself in America like so
many Italians before me. New York City was the only possible choice for my new home. I had
two wonderful, supportive friends from my college days at Barnard and those four years in
the city--during which I played, sometimes studied and above all discovered my
independence--were the best years of my life. Or so I remembered, which is all that counts.
When I announced my intentions, my boss at the time said I was a fool to leave friends and a
solid career dubbing films for the unknown of the U.S.A. and sent me off to his Tarot card
reader. I’m not a believer in the power of the cards, but the Tarots declared the trip across
the ocean would bring good things. I liked the sound of that. What stuck in my mind most of
all was the reader saying, “In America you will connect with your creative side.”
I started writing as soon as I got here, long letters to friends in which I told tales of life in the
city. I embellished a bit, tried to find humor in the loneliness that crept in despite my college
friends’ efforts, tried to dispel the feeling of being in a vacuum, of not belonging anywhere. By
writing the letters and sending them to Italy, it was as if I were throwing a line across the
ocean to keep me linked with the people of my past. I felt grounded when writing, connected
to myself. I wanted to write more than letters.
I began to do research for a novel about an American woman stuck in Prague and Rome
during World War II loosely based on a period of my mother’s life. Then my boss at the
advertising agency where I worked wouldn’t give me a raise. I felt angry, helpless. I didn’t
want to start pounding the pavement again. Finding this job had been hard enough. I did
have one option. I would put aside my research and kill my tightwad boss. On paper.
What did I have to offer to the world of mysteries? I couldn’t write about an American
protagonist with an American life. I had gone to high school and college in the States, but that
was years before, and even if I were able to pull it off, I didn’t want to abandon my ties to Italy.
After a year of writing and re-writing and a year looking for an agent and a publisher, The
Trouble with a Small Raise introduced Simona Griffo, a recent Italian immigrant to Manhattan,
who works in an advertising agency and wants to find a new life. I didn’t stray far from my own
life. Simona and Griffo were the names of my favorite dogs; her enthusiastic personality is a
copy of my sister’s, her sometime sardonic take on life is my own; her love of food belongs to
all my family. I wrote about Manhattan, my new home, but Italy kept sneaking in. Simona’s
boss is an Italian- American, the agency cook is Italian, and the food Simona cooks is Italian.
The second mystery, The Trouble with Moonlighting, brings more Italians to Manhattan.
Simona takes a vacation from her advertising job to become the dialogue coach for an Italian
film crew she knows from Rome. I was also chronicling the ups and downs (mostly invented)
of Simona’s love life with Stanley Greenhouse, a homicide detective who in real life was the
business man I was dating.
Why was I writing so close to home? Because I missed Rome, yearned for my friends, my
work in the movies, and my two- bedroom home with lots of closet space. Because, by writing
about Simona, I was finding myself. I was slowly gluing back the pieces that had shattered in
Rome. I was also a new writer, with not much confidence in creating new worlds. Write about
what you know, everyone says. I did.
My third novel went to a Club Med in the Caribbean (The Trouble with Too Much Sun), the
fourth (The Trouble with Thin Ice) to a not-so idyllic inn in Connecticut. Simona spouted
Italian sayings. She reminisced about the past, and the recipes were for pasta, but the Italian
connection seemed to be thinning out. Were Simona and her author settling into their new
home (I had by then married the business man)? It was time to go back and reassess the
situation. The Trouble with Going Home takes place in Rome and the Roman countryside.
Nothing is as Simona expected it to be. A young American student gets murdered in front of
her eyes the day she arrives. Her mother is involved and is keeping secrets from her. Her
father may have a lover. Her ex-husband shows up. Simona tries to see her city and herself
with clean eyes. She has changed. So has Rome. But Italian family ties are binding and can
lead to murder for the best of reasons.
The next two books (The Trouble with a Bad Fit and The Trouble with a Hot Summer) stay in
New York. Bad Fit deals with the garment industry and Hot Summer with the Hamptons
scene. Simona has found a partner, Dmitri K., a Russian cab driver who sells hair on the
side. She yearns for company to help her solve the trouble she stumbles upon given that
Stan Greenhouse, with whom she now lives, disapproves of her meddling. By now Simona
has become as American as she can be. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss Italy, but, as the
Tarots said, she’s found happiness in Manhattan.
I’ve given Simona a rest, maybe because she and I have settled into our new lives. I went
back to finish the World War II novel, My American Mother, which takes place in Prague and
Rome. While that book made the rounds (it has yet to find a publisher,) I went to work on an
idea that had been brewing in my head. What happens to a family after a personal tragedy?
How do they handle their grief and guilt? If they bury it and try to go on with their lives, what
outside catalyst will explode those buried emotions to the surface? After writing and re-writing
for three years, The Price of Silence is being published in June.
Price was a hard book to write. For the first time, I told the story from four different points of
view with each character begging for more attention. When I finished it, I needed to go back
to being Camilla Crespi and telling a story with a lighter touch.
Now I’m in the midst of writing about another food-loving Italian American who doesn’t
resemble me in the least. Lori Corvino, the protagonist of my next novel, Gnocchi in Her Lap,
is trying to find her footing after a divorce she did not want and, at the same time, dealing
with the divided loyalties of her thirteen year-old daughter. Just as Lori is restarting a
catering career, her ex-husband’s new wife, a successful Manhattan dentist, is murdered two
days after her wedding. The police consider Lori and her ex both possible suspects. In an
effort to regain control of her life and her daughter's, Lori tries to make sense of what
happened.
Who knows what other ideas will pop in my head in the shower or in the middle of the night,
but even though I’ve been an American citizen since 1997, I know things Italian will always be
part of the story.
I left Rome in the summer of 1980, eager to make a new life for myself in America like so
many Italians before me. New York City was the only possible choice for my new home. I had
two wonderful, supportive friends from my college days at Barnard and those four years in
the city--during which I played, sometimes studied and above all discovered my
independence--were the best years of my life. Or so I remembered, which is all that counts.
When I announced my intentions, my boss at the time said I was a fool to leave friends and a
solid career dubbing films for the unknown of the U.S.A. and sent me off to his Tarot card
reader. I’m not a believer in the power of the cards, but the Tarots declared the trip across
the ocean would bring good things. I liked the sound of that. What stuck in my mind most of
all was the reader saying, “In America you will connect with your creative side.”
I started writing as soon as I got here, long letters to friends in which I told tales of life in the
city. I embellished a bit, tried to find humor in the loneliness that crept in despite my college
friends’ efforts, tried to dispel the feeling of being in a vacuum, of not belonging anywhere. By
writing the letters and sending them to Italy, it was as if I were throwing a line across the
ocean to keep me linked with the people of my past. I felt grounded when writing, connected
to myself. I wanted to write more than letters.
I began to do research for a novel about an American woman stuck in Prague and Rome
during World War II loosely based on a period of my mother’s life. Then my boss at the
advertising agency where I worked wouldn’t give me a raise. I felt angry, helpless. I didn’t
want to start pounding the pavement again. Finding this job had been hard enough. I did
have one option. I would put aside my research and kill my tightwad boss. On paper.
What did I have to offer to the world of mysteries? I couldn’t write about an American
protagonist with an American life. I had gone to high school and college in the States, but that
was years before, and even if I were able to pull it off, I didn’t want to abandon my ties to Italy.
After a year of writing and re-writing and a year looking for an agent and a publisher, The
Trouble with a Small Raise introduced Simona Griffo, a recent Italian immigrant to Manhattan,
who works in an advertising agency and wants to find a new life. I didn’t stray far from my own
life. Simona and Griffo were the names of my favorite dogs; her enthusiastic personality is a
copy of my sister’s, her sometime sardonic take on life is my own; her love of food belongs to
all my family. I wrote about Manhattan, my new home, but Italy kept sneaking in. Simona’s
boss is an Italian- American, the agency cook is Italian, and the food Simona cooks is Italian.
The second mystery, The Trouble with Moonlighting, brings more Italians to Manhattan.
Simona takes a vacation from her advertising job to become the dialogue coach for an Italian
film crew she knows from Rome. I was also chronicling the ups and downs (mostly invented)
of Simona’s love life with Stanley Greenhouse, a homicide detective who in real life was the
business man I was dating.
Why was I writing so close to home? Because I missed Rome, yearned for my friends, my
work in the movies, and my two- bedroom home with lots of closet space. Because, by writing
about Simona, I was finding myself. I was slowly gluing back the pieces that had shattered in
Rome. I was also a new writer, with not much confidence in creating new worlds. Write about
what you know, everyone says. I did.
My third novel went to a Club Med in the Caribbean (The Trouble with Too Much Sun), the
fourth (The Trouble with Thin Ice) to a not-so idyllic inn in Connecticut. Simona spouted
Italian sayings. She reminisced about the past, and the recipes were for pasta, but the Italian
connection seemed to be thinning out. Were Simona and her author settling into their new
home (I had by then married the business man)? It was time to go back and reassess the
situation. The Trouble with Going Home takes place in Rome and the Roman countryside.
Nothing is as Simona expected it to be. A young American student gets murdered in front of
her eyes the day she arrives. Her mother is involved and is keeping secrets from her. Her
father may have a lover. Her ex-husband shows up. Simona tries to see her city and herself
with clean eyes. She has changed. So has Rome. But Italian family ties are binding and can
lead to murder for the best of reasons.
The next two books (The Trouble with a Bad Fit and The Trouble with a Hot Summer) stay in
New York. Bad Fit deals with the garment industry and Hot Summer with the Hamptons
scene. Simona has found a partner, Dmitri K., a Russian cab driver who sells hair on the
side. She yearns for company to help her solve the trouble she stumbles upon given that
Stan Greenhouse, with whom she now lives, disapproves of her meddling. By now Simona
has become as American as she can be. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss Italy, but, as the
Tarots said, she’s found happiness in Manhattan.
I’ve given Simona a rest, maybe because she and I have settled into our new lives. I went
back to finish the World War II novel, My American Mother, which takes place in Prague and
Rome. While that book made the rounds (it has yet to find a publisher,) I went to work on an
idea that had been brewing in my head. What happens to a family after a personal tragedy?
How do they handle their grief and guilt? If they bury it and try to go on with their lives, what
outside catalyst will explode those buried emotions to the surface? After writing and re-writing
for three years, The Price of Silence is being published in June.
Price was a hard book to write. For the first time, I told the story from four different points of
view with each character begging for more attention. When I finished it, I needed to go back
to being Camilla Crespi and telling a story with a lighter touch.
Now I’m in the midst of writing about another food-loving Italian American who doesn’t
resemble me in the least. Lori Corvino, the protagonist of my next novel, Gnocchi in Her Lap,
is trying to find her footing after a divorce she did not want and, at the same time, dealing
with the divided loyalties of her thirteen year-old daughter. Just as Lori is restarting a
catering career, her ex-husband’s new wife, a successful Manhattan dentist, is murdered two
days after her wedding. The police consider Lori and her ex both possible suspects. In an
effort to regain control of her life and her daughter's, Lori tries to make sense of what
happened.
Who knows what other ideas will pop in my head in the shower or in the middle of the night,
but even though I’ve been an American citizen since 1997, I know things Italian will always be
part of the story.
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