Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu
Author

Ela Vasilescu

I’m a writer based in Florence, Italy. Human nature inspires me, different cultures, traditions, folk stories and the differences which make us unique. Documenting stories is a privilege, a glimpse into humanity, an unforgettable experience, one which I embrace and honour every day. If you have a story twitching in the back of your pocket, one that is ready to be told, shared and heard, chances are I will be ready to listen; so don’t hesitate to send me an email.
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100 WORDS AND A QUILL

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The ‘100 words stories’ project is now on exhibit at Pop Art Gallery in Florence, Piazza Santo Spirito for the entire month of December. Six photos, together with six ‘ 100-word stories’ were carefully selected to be displayed in one of the cafes close to my heart. Gathering my old experimental photos and putting them together with my words felt so right it scared me. It...

Walk into my story

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A writer’s life is a constant carousel of emotions. We place our soul and thoughts on a silver platter and offer it to be dissected, judged, enjoyed, shared. A writer’s life is also a solitary life; most writers I talk to tend to lock themselves in a room and spend their time with their characters, building a new world. I, for one, surround myself by people, sit in a square and watch...

After a while, things settle down

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I’ve been thinking a lot about this post lately. I abandoned the online environment for more than two months; two months during which I experienced emotions for almost a lifetime (at times more than I bargained for). I wrote less, and I worked on existing projects more. I planned my next steps. All done in silence and far away from the ‘social’ of nowadays. I disappeared, yet I...

Today in sentences

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Today my eyelids cursed the morning sun rays who managed to sneak in and rest on my face. I took my daughter to school and hugged her, already missing her presence for the rest of the day. I had coffee with my husband and chatted about meaningless things because our brains were still not fully awake. I wrote a story about a loved one I had lost and took a stroll in the center to have coffee with...

Stop. Walk. Shout. Feel. Heal. Talk.

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We never hope for the best. That’s just a saying that screws up our entire emotional, co-dependent system. Hope for the best even when you desperately want to die. Hope for the best even when the world implodes. Hope for the best even when your whole being is just a piece of paper, all used up, written on and ready to be thrown into the trash. Why hope? Why not do? Do the best, be the best or at...

Home

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Romania is my country. I was born there. I grew up, laughed, cried, suffered, experienced true happiness there. Then I left it, tears in my eyes, my spirit crushed. I’ve hidden it deep in the corner of my soul and refused to share it with the world. I escaped it, alienated myself from its people, put my memories in a drawer and firmly locked it. I found a new country to call home, build a...

Why don’t you write a book about your life?

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With each passing day Okay, you’re right! is developing into something tangible.  I am excited to give you a sneak peek and share another fragment from the book. After my first meeting with Mark, the same question kept repeating over and over in my mind: Why doesn’t he write a book about his life?   When I got the courage to ask him, he replied without hesitation, as if this was a...

What is the first memory of your childhood?

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With each passing day Okay, you’re right! is developing into something tangible.  I am excited to give you a sneak peek and share fragments from the book. My mind kept returning to that little boy in the sketch hanging on Mark’s wall. What were his dreams, his hopes, his beliefs? Someone once told me that the first memory of your life defines who you choose to be. It is that first...

Parenthood

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I kept you in my womb, and you terrified my being. I held you in my arms, and you were everything. When you began to speak, you filled me with joy. When you cried, you provoked my anger and tickled my insecurities. I knew no other life when you came into this world, yet I was human and longed for freedom. As I was holding your hand one day, you asked me to let go. I felt alone, empty and...

Humility

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Achim could still taste the sweet-sour taste of his mother’s lemon pie. He could still feel the cuts and bruises his body endured from his father’s spiked belt for a decade. He was fifty years old. The urge for revenge still haunted his soul. A life of pain, emotional torture and living in the past. Alone, left by his wife and children, Achim took the only road he thought possible:...

Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu