More than a silly little rhyme, this newsletter was born from both a memory and a dream. A memory of the years I spent glued to my dad’s big blue lounge chair, devouring the pages of the latest Diary of a Wimpy Kid book. And then, Dear Dumb Diary, Percy Jackson, or Game of Thrones. Later, I fell in love with poetry and O’Hara, Neruda, Drummond de Andrade. They made a home in my heart forever.

A memory of the time I longed to be so many characters, so many women. When I ached to grow up and become a critic, a chef, a painter, a writer. 

It comes as the ramification of a dream. Of travelling the world to see the pages that have been left as legacy, the forgotten ones, adored ones. A dream of filling my house with knowledge. With the books I treasure, the ones I couldn’t bear to finish. To keep them forever as proof of life. And if I am allowed a little self-involvement, as a memoir. Who was Beatriz as read in Woolf, Didion, O’Hara? So that my children may one day explore what moved me. Flipping through the pages to find dried flowers, train tickets, and another new but no different Italian restaurant flyer. 

I have been creating this in my head for a long time. A safe space where I’d spend my days merrily staring at the ivory pages. A portal to my soul. My very own library. This is the digital version of it, where you’re most welcome. Make yourself at home. 

Beatriz lives between gloomy England and Brazil. Academically frustrated and unfit for the corporate world, she now pursues what her 13-year-old self already knew was her future. To write, truthfully and often, sometimes mediocrely or plainly dreadful, but always. To write always. She writes mostly personal essays on love, culture and travelling.