«I write to still emotions.
I direct to give them body.»

My name is Valentina.

I was born towards the end of the last century — on Easter Sunday, at noon, two weeks late.

Perhaps that is why I love spring, rebirth and unhurried time.

The tenacity of a flower blooming through asphalt, the April sun, the scent of freshly cut grass.

I love the wrinkles of the elderly and their calm voices, pasta nights with friends,

hiking boots muddy from the trail.

I love the lessons of the mountains, the company of snow,

the song of winter beaches.

I love the crackle of fireplaces, the signs of old cinemas,

the creak of theatres, Parisian lampposts.

I love losing myself in bookshops, running with children,

touching raw wood.

I am moved by the dimples in my son's hands and by the light in my husband's eyes when he is happy.

Every now and then I close my eyes and fall silent to hear my grandmother's voice again.

And to fool myself into thinking I can stop time.

That is why I write:

to distill the emotions that the wind, slowly, carries away.