Why Italy Keeps Finding Its Way Into My Stories

If you've spent any amount of time in my fictional worlds, you've probably noticed something.

Italy has my heart.

There is something about Italy that awakens my imagination in a way I have never been able to completely explain.

Maybe it's the history.

The cobblestone streets. The churches that have watched centuries pass beneath their doors. The faded frescoes, Renaissance palaces, tiny alleyways, ancient ruins, bells echoing across a city in the evening.

Or perhaps it's knowing that everywhere you walk, countless lives have unfolded there before you.

People fell in love there.

They lost each other there.

They celebrated, betrayed, dreamed, fought, married, grieved, and began again.

As a writer, how could I possibly resist that?

Italy doesn't feel like a backdrop to me. It feels like another character.

When I imagine a story unfolding in Florence, Rome, Venice, or a forgotten village tucked somewhere in the countryside, I immediately start wondering:

Who walked here centuries ago?

What secrets could these walls hold?

What if the past wasn't quite finished with us?

And suddenly, there is a story.

My love of history and my love of romance seem to meet naturally there. Add an ancient manuscript, a supernatural secret, a little destiny, and perhaps a dangerously irresistible man who has been waiting several centuries for someone...

Well.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Some places you visit. Others somehow feel like you've returned.

For me, Italy will always be the latter.