The first story I ever wrote was about my grandmother growing up inside of an Italian traveling carnival. It was nonfiction. She used to bring my brothers and me to visit with her during the summer. We piled into caravans with our distant cousins, skipped the line to ride the calcinculo a dozen times, and listened to my grandmother reminisce over late night dinners while the new generation of carnies packed up the rides. The immersive chaos ignited something in her. I understand now that it was her happy place. Writing is mine.