I have never been able to explain to my mom what I do for a living.
Up to a certain point, it was relatively easy. After all, I had a role, a company affiliation, a business card that said: Press Office Feltrinelli. This didn't explain everything; in fact, it hardly explained anything, because what a press office (of a publishing house, no less) actually does is something no one really knows for sure. But in any case, it was a job: I went to the office every day, sometimes I traveled for work, I had a manager, colleagues, and panettone at Christmas.
It was all clearer.
At one point, however – I was forty-two years old, had three small children, and no grandparents to leave them with – I thought it wise to create a bit more disorder in my professional life. I quit my job and went back to studying. Two years later, I started working as an interpreter, collaborating with publishers, festivals, and literary awards, and soon other projects came along: writing, translation, event organization, communication. Quite a lot, in short, and all always around or in proximity to books.
From one perspective, my mom has every reason to be a bit confused. What she perhaps doesn't know is that, as I see it, these professions are the same thing, or nearly so. Because everything I do somehow relates to the use of words. The charm of language. Empathy. Everything has to do with receiving a message and interpreting it.
This is what I should tell my mom when she asks me how on earth I make a living: I pick up on a communicative intention, take it on, and try to convey it as best I can. Sonia Folin
Saturday at 9:30 AM breakfast. Coffee, tea, all the good things that are needed to start the day well: cookies made with organic flours baked in a wood-fired oven, local yogurt and cheeses, garden fruit jams, and whatever the awakening and the season inspire (for example, chiffon).
At 12.30 lunch is light, greetings, and toasts. In between, chatting, questions, and great ideas. As much as you like.
