Writer In Florence Ela Vasilescu

Ela Vasilescu


Playwright, compassion, the world


Com-Solum By Amy Sarno A 36 year old African-American woman with braids. She sits in an office chair, tipping backwards. She’s chewing gum. In the background, there’s the sound of women’s voices. It sounds as though a woman with a strong Spanish accent is speaking very quickly sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes it might be a made-up combination of the two languages. Jasmine:  ...

I refuse to belong and yet…


I refuse to belong. I refuse to belong in a world that doesn’t want to belong. I refuse to accept and advocate for any group no matter how good their intentions are. I refuse to separate human beings based on color, religion, culture, or sexual preferences. I refuse to be a part of any of this, and yet I keep waking up and breathing the same air as everyone every single day. The world didn’t...

The Human Behind The Artist… final touches


Last week I turned on the recorder one last time for The Human Behind The Artist  project. All throughout the interview I was overwhelmed by mixed feelings and as I turned the recorder off I knew that the project is complete, that this was the final interview; I could almost hear a whisper telling me that it felt ready to be released into the world. For those of you who don’t know, The...

The friend I never met


By Loredana Andrei Since childhood I was surrounded by only a few friends, but those few I had were very close to my heart. When I left my home country to move to Germany a few years ago, I knew my life was going to change completely; I knew that I will have to learn how to live without any friends around. Even so, I hoped to meet new people here, but it hadn’t been as easy as I thought. Not...

Where are you from?


Where are you from? This is a question that tortures my stomach every time it’s addressed to me. Where am I from? I used to know the answer to that question. At first it was a city, and then it was the last city I lived in, until it became a country and now… now I don’t even know the answer to that anymore. I don’t know where I’m from. Places have lost meaning somehow and people replaced the...

Pain, heritage, unveiling


By Lorenzo Novani I woke to howling wind and all the hostility that it brings: the little door to the shelter rattling violently, snow fluttering through the sides, cold air reaching up to sting my face and leave me numb. I thought about my predicament. I was 1,345 meters above sea level on the collapsed dome of an extinct volcano, surrounded by snow, fog, and darkness, in freezing temperatures...

Childhood, writers, dilemmas


By Lee Foust For a fiction writer, one’s childhood grows plotted, thematic, and comes to reek of manipulated matter. The childhood recollection can be anything but honest, anything but benign. I frame my own in Gothic. There were monsters. No, not under the bed, but along the deserted streets of a lonely, countryish California suburb. Before cement sidewalks and Astroturf lawns. Darting, rumbling...

Once upon a time I gave up on people


Ever since I was a child, I loved observing humans. I loved the way they talked, the way they walked, acted, thought, innovated, struggled, prevailed. Whenever there was a problem that needed solving, I was there to help. Of course, most of the time I made a bigger mess than needed. Thus, over the years, close family and friends discouraged my actions telling me that sooner or later I will be...

Fatherhood, love, triumph


By David Orr My two year old son calls me ‘Daddy’, occasionally ‘Babbo’, and a few times a month, ‘Davide’.  Of the three, ‘Davide’ is the most startling, as if he’s aged sixteen years in a sentence and turned into an ironic teenager.  Also, my first name is David – Davide is what comes out the other end of an Italian pasta-press, flattened and exotic. Though he was born in Italy and we...

Thoughts of solitude


We are our best friend and our worst enemy. We take our first breath alone and we breath in for the last time… alone. Solitude saves us; solitude condemns us; solitude kills us. When I was five years old I found my best friend looking back at me from behind the mirror, smiling, goofing around while I brushed my teeth, making faces and laughing at my jokes. Soon enough that cute, curly...

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