Gail Reitano

Gail Reitano grew up in the southern New Jersey Pine Barrens. She graduated from Rutgers University and lived in London for twelve years before moving to the San Francisco Bay Area. Her fiction, memoir and personal essays have appeared in Glimmer Train, Catamaran Literary Reader, and Ovunque Siamo among others, and have been featured on public radio in the Bay Area. Italian Love Cake is her first novel. 

Twitter: @GailReitano

Instagram: @reitanogail

What period of history do you wish you knew more about?

I've always been curious about the period in America between the Great Depression and WWII, which is partly why I set my debut novel, Italian Love Cake in that era, in the time of my grandmother. Writing a book with a historical backdrop forces you to thoroughly read the history, and when my research turned up so many similarities between 1930s America and now, my interest only increased. In my novel I write about what life was like, the mood, the clothes, food, politics, and of course the economics. The New Yorker archive was a great resource.

Have you ever experienced Imposter Syndrome?

Often. Though I’ve lived long enough to have gained a certain knowledge about the world and my craft, whenever I’m asked about my work or invited to share my experience, at the moment the words leave my mouth, I feel like I’m making it up. I just returned from giving a craft talk at a writer's conference. I was prepared and it went well, but initially I couldn’t shake the feeling that my rightful place was in the audience rather than behind the lectern. When someone compliments me on a piece of writing, for a second I don’t feel entitled to that praise, even if in my heart I know the work is good and deserves their good opinion. 

Is there a work of art that you love? Why? Have you ever visited it in person?

“Cell II, 1991,” by the sculptor Louise Bourgeois. Shalimar bottles of various sizes sit on a mirrored tray; next to them are a beautiful pair of sculpted hands, fingers entwined. The Shalimar bottles instantly brought to mind my grandmother, my father’s mother, who always wore the perfume. My father was as controversial a figure in my life as Louise Bourgeois’s father was in hers. The piece hit me viscerally when I first saw it in Bourgeois’s Destruction of the Father, Reconstruction of the Father. As I read her memories of her childhood, I felt an even greater connection. Several years ago, as I was passing through Pittsburgh, I remembered the sculpture was in the Carnegie Museum of Art, so I went. I was really excited, only to be told that the piece was in storage and couldn’t be viewed. When I got home I went on eBay, bought several vintage Shalimar bottles and put them on a mirrored tray. 

Do you have another artistic outlet? In addition to your writing? Do you sew, paint, knit, draw, dance? 

I draw and occasionally I sew. What I like about drawing is I can take a break from writing and do a sketch instead, right there in my notebook. I know other writers who do this. Sometimes I use pastels, chalk or oil, and sometimes watercolors, or wet/dry pencils. Sewing is more difficult because I don’t have a dedicated space where it can be set up and left. Also, sewing is very time consuming, and because I have to choose, I write.

What piece of clothing tells the most interesting story of your life? 

I once bought an Oscar de la Renta greatcoat (at a very reduced price), ankle length, in a rich burgundy red with velvet collar and cuffs. It was spectacular, dramatic and really hard to wear. It was very heavy, made for getting in and out of limos, which I wasn’t doing. When I left New York to live in London I lugged the coat with me—it had to have its own suitcase. I wore it maybe twice in the twelve years I was there, and each time I felt like a completely different person: glamorous, trendy, jet-setting. Then, when I moved to the Bay Area, I lugged it again, even though there’s absolutely no occasion when one can wear a coat like that here. One day I discovered a tiny moth hole near the hem, so tiny and in a place where you’d never see it, yet I felt depressed, like that imaginary part of me had finally died. I held on to the coat for another ten years, then I gave it to my daughter, who discarded it.