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

I started writing short stories and poems 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. During my translation course, I was forced to share my writing with others (a lot of others, because our teacher, strangely, liked my work). The funny thing is that what she had read wasn’t in English. For fifteen odd years I wrote and published short stories 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. Some were translated by friends. Many were created in writing courses under the guidance of wonderful authors.

I hardly ever write short stories anymore. Translation fills that need. And it is, as Mann states, easier. – M.C.

Some of my stories can be found 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:





Lo spirito del natale:

Sophia’s grandmother: