The Sicilian Inheritance is the kind of book I love to read between bouts with “important” Literature type stuff. After a heavy devastating work, I crave something designed to entertain. If Sicilian Inheritance were a food, it'd be dessert. It's colorful, witty, and I’ve been reminiscing about some of its delicious scenes as if it were my spring break vacation to Italy.
Sara Marsala is sent back to the tiny town of her Sicilian ancestors to reclaim family land and—more importantly—discover her great-grandmother's true story. The family legend is that great-grandma Serafina fell ill and died before she could get on the boat to reunite with her husband and children in America. In the course of Sara’s not-so-crackerjack detective work (and the more illuminating chapters that take us back to Serafina’s time in Sicily) we learn that the truth is a little more complicated and much more interesting.
Our protagonist is immediately likable, perhaps because she’s kind of a disaster. Her marriage is over; she's facing bankruptcy because her life’s work–a restaurant in her beloved Philadelphia–has closed; she's grieving the aunt that loved her so completely; and she isn't sure she's the best mom to her toddler daughter. She could use a getaway.
We follow Sara as she stumbles closer and closer to the truth, with the “help” of her innkeeper, a sexy, opinionated lady who may or may not be an ally. Meanwhile, we get to go back to the early 1900s to see what was really going on with Serafina. In the final chapters, the two plotlines sync across the years in a richly rewarding way.
Sara’s trip to Sicily uncovers Serafina’s true story and liberates Sara from her own gloom. Jo Piazza’s novel is indeed a gloom-lifter. Actually, so is Piazza’s Instagram, podcast, and very funny Substack.1
Time for a new story
I feel like The Sicilian Inheritance is a little bit about claiming your narrative. In the book, Sara gets an opportunity to hit refresh on the “I failed” version of her life. She gets to do it in the most beautiful, sunny, delicious place in the world. For me, that opportunity arose while sitting on the dusty floor of my closet.
In an effort to avoid a more urgent and necessary chore, I decided to clean out the storage bins in my closet. Turns out I’m maybe a raging narcissist, because how else can I explain why I've saved every daily planner and journal since I was in my 20s? Do I think some august institution will one day want my “papers” for future biographers?
It was time to purge. Naturally, I leafed through nearly all of them as I cleaned and oh my gosh was I repetitive. And pessimistic. And cruel. I judged myself so harshly all the time for every little thing. For the last 30 years I’ve been telling myself the same anxious, negative, scared, blamey story. On the page at least, I out-Eeyore Eeyore.
I have no idea why but on that day in my closet I possessed the emotional detachment to look at this stuff and see it for what it was–bunk. It was all just false perception, a crappy narrative that was not serving me. It was a flywheel of self-loathing, and it was boring. Repetitive, self-absorbed, and boring. (When I told a besty this, she pointed out that everyone’s journals are dull and redundant, and that made me feel so much better. I love knowing we’re all a little monstrous.)
If I wasn't so scared of burning down the neighborhood, I’d have turned all my old journals into ash with a big ceremonial pyre. Instead, I lugged a big Glad bag filled with my neurotic ramblings out the door and dumped it in the trash.
Why have I spent so much of my life telling myself I suck? I realize this is a deeper psychological conundrum that trained specialists must help me unpack, but in the short term, the throw-it-out trick is working. I've been jobless for almost a month now, and the usual blackness hasn't descended. It’s as if I’ve molted, and I’m fluttering about with this unusual sense of optimism. This bright outlook could be just as fictional as the negativity that defined me for years, of course, but it’s so much more pleasant inside my head.2
Whatever you have in your closet–literal or figurative–I highly recommend trashing it. If you can’t take a vacation in Sicily, that is.
I originally fell for Piazza when she posted a picture of her messy bedroom in her IG feed. Yet another writer I wish I was friends with
Maintaining this optimism requires a very light skimming of the news. Anything deeper and full doomsday spirals ensue.
Tis the reason why I don’t journal. Reminding myself of my insipid self-absorption has never been healthy. How many ways do I no longer want to beat myself up? 🙃
"so brave" is a cliche, but somehow this feels apt for this post!!