Ask the Author: Felicia Iancu
Answered Questions (9)
Felicia Iancu
The mirror finally showed me the face I’ve been dreaming about for years.
It wasn’t mine, and it refused to look away.
It wasn’t mine, and it refused to look away.
Felicia Iancu
Inspiration comes to me the way light enters a closed room — quietly, through the smallest crack.
I rarely chase it; I listen for it.
Sometimes it arrives as memory, sometimes as music, sometimes as silence that insists on being translated.
When I began Caietul cu compuneri, Caietul cu splendori (The Notebook of Compositions, The Notebook of Splendors), I realized inspiration isn’t about finding something new — it’s about remembering who you were before the world began to edit you.
It came straight from the drawer of my memories — raw, sincere to the point of pain, luminous to the edge of revelation, and illegally effervescent with joy.
I escaped, somehow — not to prison, nor to oblivion.
I rarely chase it; I listen for it.
Sometimes it arrives as memory, sometimes as music, sometimes as silence that insists on being translated.
When I began Caietul cu compuneri, Caietul cu splendori (The Notebook of Compositions, The Notebook of Splendors), I realized inspiration isn’t about finding something new — it’s about remembering who you were before the world began to edit you.
It came straight from the drawer of my memories — raw, sincere to the point of pain, luminous to the edge of revelation, and illegally effervescent with joy.
I escaped, somehow — not to prison, nor to oblivion.
Felicia Iancu
Inspiration comes to me the way light enters a closed room — quietly, through the smallest crack.
I rarely chase it; I listen for it.
Sometimes it arrives as memory, sometimes as music, sometimes as silence that insists on being translated.
When I began Caietul cu compuneri, Caietul cu splendori (The Notebook of Compositions, The Notebook of Splendors), I realized inspiration isn’t about finding something new — it’s about remembering who you were before the world began to edit you.
I rarely chase it; I listen for it.
Sometimes it arrives as memory, sometimes as music, sometimes as silence that insists on being translated.
When I began Caietul cu compuneri, Caietul cu splendori (The Notebook of Compositions, The Notebook of Splendors), I realized inspiration isn’t about finding something new — it’s about remembering who you were before the world began to edit you.
Felicia Iancu
I’ve just published In the Cemetery, a lyrical horror story that closes the first circle of Felicity: Geography of Being.
Now I’m working on something deeply personal — Caietul cu compuneri, Caietul cu splendori (1980–1984) / The Notebook of Compositions, The Notebook of Splendors.
It gathers the earliest texts of my childhood — poems and fragments written between innocence and awakening.
The Romanian version is complete; I’m now translating it into English, French, Spanish, and Italian.
Each language feels like a mirror of the same child — one who believed that words could still save the world.
Now I’m working on something deeply personal — Caietul cu compuneri, Caietul cu splendori (1980–1984) / The Notebook of Compositions, The Notebook of Splendors.
It gathers the earliest texts of my childhood — poems and fragments written between innocence and awakening.
The Romanian version is complete; I’m now translating it into English, French, Spanish, and Italian.
Each language feels like a mirror of the same child — one who believed that words could still save the world.
Felicia Iancu
Write as if no one will ever read you — and then polish every word as if the universe will.
Don’t chase perfection; chase truth.
Let your wounds speak, your silences echo, and your pages breathe.
A book is not written to impress — it’s written to survive.
And if your words save even one heartbeat, including your own, you’ve already succeeded.
Don’t chase perfection; chase truth.
Let your wounds speak, your silences echo, and your pages breathe.
A book is not written to impress — it’s written to survive.
And if your words save even one heartbeat, including your own, you’ve already succeeded.
Felicia Iancu
The best thing about being a writer is witnessing how silence begins to breathe.
A sentence that once belonged only to you suddenly finds its reflection in a stranger’s heart — and for a moment, you both exist in the same light.
Writing turns solitude into communion; it’s the only way I know to speak with the world without interrupting it.
A sentence that once belonged only to you suddenly finds its reflection in a stranger’s heart — and for a moment, you both exist in the same light.
Writing turns solitude into communion; it’s the only way I know to speak with the world without interrupting it.
Felicia Iancu
I would travel to the world of The Prophet — not as a listener, but as one of the silent figures in the crowd, waiting for Almustafa’s final words before he boards the ship.
I’d ask him nothing. I’d only offer him one of my own poems and watch if the wind carried it back to shore.
For me, that’s what writing feels like — sending a message to a world that may never answer, but might still remember your voice.
I’d ask him nothing. I’d only offer him one of my own poems and watch if the wind carried it back to shore.
For me, that’s what writing feels like — sending a message to a world that may never answer, but might still remember your voice.
Felicia Iancu
This summer, I’m rereading the voices that shaped my silence — Kahlil Gibran, Anne Sexton, Mahmoud Darwish, and Fernando Pessoa.
Their words remind me that poetry isn’t a refuge but a return.
Alongside them, I’ll keep revisiting my own Felicity: Geography of Being cycle — Song for Life, Song for You, The Vigil Hour, The Hour of Love, and In the Cemetery — not to edit, but to listen to what the poems are still trying to say back to me.
Their words remind me that poetry isn’t a refuge but a return.
Alongside them, I’ll keep revisiting my own Felicity: Geography of Being cycle — Song for Life, Song for You, The Vigil Hour, The Hour of Love, and In the Cemetery — not to edit, but to listen to what the poems are still trying to say back to me.
Felicia Iancu
Perhaps the greatest mystery in my life — and the one that already became a book — is how memory keeps rewriting itself when you survive love and loss.
I’ve lived between languages, countries, and ghosts; each one left its own alphabet inside me.
Song for Life was born from that mystery — the quiet miracle of how grief can become its own form of light.
I’ve lived between languages, countries, and ghosts; each one left its own alphabet inside me.
Song for Life was born from that mystery — the quiet miracle of how grief can become its own form of light.
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