“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” Thomas Mann

I started writing at a very young age. For years I filled notebooks and old diaries and day-planners and scraps of paper…I was what you would call a closet writer, I suppose. During my translation course, I was forced to share my writing with others. A lot of others, because our teacher thought my work was good. The funny thing is that it wasn’t in English. For fifteen odd years I wrote and published in both languages; then I started translating literature; and other voices and other stories filled my head and heart.

I used to call my stories snapshots: they were, in a sense, pictures of the people and things around me. Some are here in parallel, and some are not. Some were written in English, and some were not. Some I have translated myself. –

I don’t write anymore. Translation fills that need. And is, as Mann states, easier. M.C.

I have finally decided to share some of my stories on a page, here:

Il parrozzo

Strawberry sweettarts


Swim little fish


Thin lines

The heir

Via Bolognese

Below the belt

Il viaggio


Tra le righe

Produttore di sogni

Coral sings songs of love

Il primo giorno