Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu

Ela Vasilescu


What is the first memory of your childhood?


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 every week. 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...



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...



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:...



From the moment we take our first breath, we die. Each day we open our eyes, each smile and each tear shed, brings us closer to our end. Most of us deny the undeniable, taking pleasure in earthly belongings, judging, and despising our differences. Some, spend their time building bridges so that peoples can walk smother onto their path. Meanwhile, the glass hour mocks us or smiles at us. Humans...



Nana was ninety years old and lived alone. She and her husband never had children; they always felt that they were enough. Nana had the same meals every day: bitter, Turkish coffee in the morning, which she would enjoy underneath the walnut tree, some vegetables for lunch, olive oil and homemade bread for dinner – her favorite. Nana lived through wars, the beginning of industrialization...

And thus you were born…


Fifty-six years ago today my father was born. Twenty-two years later I took my first breath as his daughter. Since that day I craved to understand and create a connection, more often than not unsuccessful, but that hasn’t stopped me from creating my image about the man who is my father. My father always appeared to be a  wise man. He seems to be a giant that can pierce anyone with his gaze...

Time to let go…and make the best jam in the world.


Today I found out that my grandmother died in June. In June, and I only found out about it today… I would have probably never known if I didn’t need to make a phone call and ask an entirely different thing. My grandmother and I never had that cozy, warm, grandma-granddaughter relationship. I remember her very little since I was a kid and we got reunited when I was 14 years old. We...

Let’s dance it out in Austria!


For the past six months I felt lost. My thoughts and feelings took an unexpected turn and it seemed like I put my life on pause. My body was there, experiencing everything, but I wasn’t. Pretending to be fine is one of my strong traits, yet there are a few people who can read me even if I don’t want them to. Last week I went on a trip to visit Mark in Graz, Austria. For those of you...

The Old Boots


The thing about mess is that it derails the already derailed mind. Mess gets everywhere, copulates with space and expands like a Bavarian’s stomach. Tidiness is concision, the opposite but mess, it has wings made of shit, and it has grand aspirations, to run like riverluts into every nook and cranny, leaving you ravaged. My place was an armpit because a workman was dismantling, excavating my...

Writing in the cemetery


Sitting in an old cemetery writing… A few days ago I received a beautiful present: the keys to an old cemetery to come and write in silence. After only two hours here, my fingers are flying madly on the keyboard and already finished a week’s worth of work. But there is more to it. The silence. There is a special silence coming from somewhere within this place, a sort of tranquility...

Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu

Ela Vasilescu

I am a writer and a freelance journalist based in Florence, Italy. Ever since I can remember I loved stories and everything about them, from the storyteller who told them, to the paper they were written on. Because of that, I love listening to people’s stories and sometimes experience them in writing as my own.
Read more on About Me page