Lasting Impressions

The View from Lake Como
Adriana Trigiani ’81 in Conversation with President Katie Conboy

Adriana Trigiani’s latest novel, The View from Lake Como, was published in July to great acclaim. She shared with President Katie Conboy some of the background and the process involved in writing the novel.

Katie Conboy: Your book is, in part, a retelling of your great-grandmother Giuseppina’s life. What was the moment when you realized her story needed to be fictionalized rather than simply memorialized? How did your imagination help you fill in the silences of the archival record? 

Adriana Trigiani: In my mind, the only novels worth reading are rooted in truth. Emotional, sometimes historical, factual, or from memory. I knew I wanted to write my great-grandmother’s story, but I had just written The Good Left Undone, and I felt the readers wanted a contemporary novel from me—a comedy. So, I took the grace notes and facts of my great-grandmother’s life and set them in the moment. I believe it made the novel more introspective and emotional—and there was a drive to the action. Comedy can’t be explained—I know it when I write it, or hear it, but there was something about a woman living in her parents’ basement that made me want to understand why. I think if I wrote a straight memoir about this, it wouldn’t pack the same punch. Plus, I never knew my great-grandmother—the facts were imparted to me by my grandmother—so if I went for straight memoir, I would have been constrained by the story. 

KC: Jess Capodimonte’s journey is as much internal (identity, belonging) as external (reclaiming the marble business, traveling to Italy). How did you balance or interweave those two arcs in drafting the novel? At what point did you see them as inseparable?

AT: That’s a great question. Are we what we do or who we are? Or, are we both? Perhaps I have a bias about this—I have a hard time understanding why a woman has to give up her career to have a family, or a family for her career. Identity is what we do, both internal and external. So, I make a choice early on when writing a character that is very clear—what does she want and how is she going to get it? In a way, your question is about weaving the internal and external as one—and in my mind, they are one narrative thrust. 

KC: One of the most compelling aspects of the novel is how family secrets, sacrifices, and obligations both wound and sustain—especially for women in the story. Without giving away spoilers, could you talk about a character whose tension between duty and self surprised you during writing?

AT: My characters always surprise me. They live in the world and I join them there—in their world, in their time, at their behest. This sounds a little nuts, but in order to write a novel, a writer has to return to the same world every day and live in it: the characters breathe in that world, thrive or die in there, and it’s my job to bring the reader through the process. 

KC: The theme of heritage runs deep in this book—especially the pull between the Italian homeland and its diaspora. In your research (e.g. into Carrara, marble quarries, or the generational immigrant experience), what moved you most—and how did that shift your storytelling? 

AT: I am surprised at every turn by the ways in which my characters long for home and yet have a wanderlust to leave it. This might be the nature of the immigrant, to want more, a better life, the ability to make a living while longing for the place where they have roots, and often family left behind. I tried, through various characters, to dramatize the plight of the immigrant, to make it clear to the reader what is at stake when a person decides to seek their heart’s desire over their duty and obligation to their family. It’s a risky business, but one worth exploring in terms of heritage and responsibility. 

KC: If you could take Jess Capodimonte on one walking tour through a place you love (in Italy, Appalachia, or somewhere unexpected), where would you go—and what would you hope she notices first?  

AT: I’d take her to Greenwich Village in New York City and show her the view from the rooftop of the Whitney Museum. She would appreciate the artistry in the architecture of Renzo Piano, and there’s nothing like the spot beyond the Statue of Liberty where the Hudson River flows into the Atlantic Ocean. That’s the spot every immigrant sails through—where the boat docks for a better life. Whether coming or going, it’s a beautiful thing.

KC: You are a proud alumna of Saint Mary’s, where your early artistic gifts were nurtured (writing, directing, theater). How did your time at Saint Mary’s shape the writer you’ve become—and are there particular mentors, assignments, or experiences from those years that echo into this new novel?  

AT: I think about my education often and with great love—whether it’s Sister Jean Klene’s Shakespeare class, or Max Westler’s poetry class or directing with Reg Bain or playwriting with Julie Jensen, I always had a sense that I could be anything I wanted to be or write about whatever intrigued me. Taking a shot at directing actors and rewriting scenes, and trusting my vision when staging a play, I was challenged and encouraged simultaneously—which isn’t easy. I liked that the Sisters of the Holy Cross were hovering on the perimeters—trying to sneak off unnoticed—as if they didn’t want to interrupt our college experience. But they too were a great gift to me. They had guts—and worked to educate women—so they will always be tops in pops to me. I came to New York City a few weeks after graduation with the intention of making my living as an artist. Saint Mary’s gave me courage—and a kind of belief in myself that might have taken many more years had I gone to another school. There is something very special about the college experience surrounded by women—there’s a power in it—and a frank conversation that continues to this day about what it means to be a woman in the world. I grapple with the same issues now as I did back in the 1980s, but I am much gentler with myself about my shortcomings. I have no complaints—I have learned to be completely grateful for my portion. Success for me is not about me, but how much I can share my good fortune. I believe Saint Mary’s was the right place at the right time. I was in a joint theater program, so I have many dear friends made across the street at Notre Dame. It was the perfect setting for a writer. I loved the Indiana sky—it was limitless—the campus was lush, connected by these wonderful paths—and you’d turn a corner and run right into the Blessed Mother. I don’t know: there was magic there somehow—Moreau Hall was, in many ways, my cathedral. I could be true to myself at Saint Mary’s. Yes, I’m a romantic and longed for love, but I was not to find it in Indiana. So, any young woman who reads this—don’t despair: focus on your talent and your gifts and push yourself at Saint Mary’s. If you do that, the rest of your life will unfold in truth and beauty like The Avenue at Saint Mary’s. 
 

November 18, 2025