SalTo 2026, my first as an author

May 18, 2026

SalTo 2026, my first as an author. I want to take you behind the scenes of a literary fair: what it's like to be there, what I left behind, and what it taught me. But let's look at it together.

SalTo in the sky: the first plane trip I took completely by myself

My SalTo began long before I set foot inside Lingotto Fiere. It all started at Naples Capodichino airport, with a huge backpack on my shoulders and anxiety devouring me alive. It was the very first time I had taken a plane alone. For someone who suffers from vertigo, it felt almost like overcoming an invisible obstacle. It perfectly encapsulates everything this journey was: constantly overcoming limits I didn't even know I had.

After an endless series of problems at the gate, like a good Neapolitan, I even managed to get through security without paying for my oversized hand luggage. But anyone who writes, draws, and lives for creativity knows this: when you leave, you take half the world with you. An hour and a half later, I was in Turin, for the second time in my life, but without ever having truly experienced it. I felt completely disoriented, small in the middle of a huge city I didn't yet know.

I reached the train that would take me to SalTo and something simple but very important happened there: I met other people heading to the fair. A divine blessing. Truly. In that moment, I realized that I wasn't the only one feeling fear, expectations, dreams, and exhaustion. Sometimes, just sharing a destination is enough to feel less alone.

A city of books called the Turin International Book Fair

When I left the station and found myself directly in front of SalTo, I believe I had one of the best moments of my life. Stepping out of the station and finding the fair right in front of me was something wonderful. A waking dream. And it truly was. I had never been to the Turin International Book Fair and I felt like I was collecting firsts like a child discovering the world.

Once my ticket was scanned, I felt catapulted into a parallel city. SalTo doesn't even feel like a fair: it's a universe built entirely of books, stands, endless corridors, and people who share your same obsession. Yet, amidst that human sea, I felt terrified.

The first six hours were mentally devastating. I kept asking myself: "How do I tell them what I'm feeling without scaring them? How can I make them passionate about my story without necessarily pushing for a sale?" I was afraid of seeming insistent, out of place, not good enough. Among thousands of people, I felt incredibly alone. "Am I up to it? Or is this event bigger than me?" I think that's a question every emerging author carries inside when they come to SalTo for the first time.

SalTo and the first copy sold that I will never forget

Then, around 7:00 PM, something happened that I will never forget. The first book found a new home. Even today, I struggle to explain what I felt at that moment. I was completely flustered. I couldn't find the gadgets, I forgot the prices, I spoke incoherently. A total disaster. Yet someone stopped. Someone believed in me.

That person didn't just buy a book. They bought a part of my life, my fears, my past. Someone believed in me, and this part of my story is now in their hands. It's a very difficult feeling to explain to someone who doesn't write. Because when you create something of your own, especially a first book, you pour years of emotions, thoughts, and wounds into it.

The day ended with dinner with the other colleagues from the stand. And another very important thing happened there. For the first time in a very long time, I didn't feel out of place. I didn't feel isolated, at the wrong table, that no one was willing to listen to me. We were simply people who had dedicated time, energy, and heart to our stories. No one better than the other. Just colleagues, finally.

The second day and the hope that slowly grows

The second day at SalTo started almost immediately with a surprise. I had barely set foot at the fair when the second book was gone from me in less than an hour. I still remember that feeling of astonishment mixed with disbelief. I thought: maybe I really am doing something good after all. A few hours later, the third book was also sold. And that's when I seriously started to hope that this was my path. Each copy I let go felt like a piece of the past entrusted to someone else's hands. It's a strange feeling: on one hand, you feel vulnerable, on the other, incredibly alive.

In the meantime, I wandered through the stands, talked to other authors, observed books, covers, people. And I understood a fundamental thing: SalTo is not just about selling. It's also about meeting people with a similar past to yours, sharing dreams and hopes, creating discussions and debating issues more complex than ourselves. This is probably the most beautiful part of the whole experience. Some friends also joined me. We recorded vlogs, talked about books and life. But towards evening, something inside me began to crack.

SalTo, comparing myself to others, and that feeling of not being enough

I think the hardest part of SalTo was the constant comparison with others. I saw authors declaring their copies sold out, lines of readers waiting for an autograph, people who seemed perfectly in their element. And then there was me, with my insecurities. "I don't write a simple genre that everyone likes. My first book is voluminous, perhaps too much, perhaps intimidating." I felt almost wrong. As if the market demanded immediacy, simplicity, easy-to-consume products, while I had written something extremely personal and emotionally heavy.

I nurtured and raised it as if it were a child, but made of ecological and recycled paper. I believe this phrase perfectly describes my relationship with the book. It wasn't a product to be sold. It was a living part of me. And so I started asking myself if I was doing enough. "I'm afraid of falling back into banality, into selling out my ideas." Because at SalTo, the risk of constantly comparing yourself to others is enormous. You wonder if you're too slow, too different, too complicated. And perhaps no one talks enough about this part of the experience.

The last day and the melancholy that takes over

When Saturday arrived, I expected absolute chaos. Everyone talked about blocked corridors and unmanageable crowds. Instead, the reality was different from what I had imagined. The fourth book was gone before lunch. I left it in the hands of an extremely curious person; she asked me everything, and I charmed her with the simplicity of my story. And that's when I realized something beautiful: maybe I didn't need to be the loudest at the fair. Maybe being sincere was enough.

Is this what SalTo is? Exchanging parts of ourselves at lightning speed? At that moment, I also thought a lot about the title of my book: Who Comes and Who Goes. Because the Salone is exactly that. People who meet, brush against each other, tell each other something, and then disappear again. That day, I met bloggers, gave interviews, talked to many people. But along with gratitude, a very strong melancholy also grew. I knew that everything would soon end.

SalTo, the return home, and everything Turin taught me

The last morning in Turin was devastating. Waking up at four, anxiety weighing on me, and the city completely deserted. I ran through the desolate streets, fleeing from tramps, rats, and sewer rats. It seemed almost like a surreal scene. When I finally arrived at the airport, I felt only exhaustion. A tiredness that was physical, mental, and emotional all at once. But as soon as I got on the plane, I thought only one thing: "I've never been so happy to go home." And yet, as soon as I landed, I also realized that SalTo wasn't really over. Because around 4:00 PM, I also sold the fifth and last book. From home. In silence. Almost like a symbolic conclusion to the whole journey.

I don't know how well it actually went, what I sowed, and what I will reap. And that's the most honest truth I can tell. I don't know if my SalTo was a success or not. I don't know if all this will truly bring something concrete into my life. But I do know that Turin left something inside me. It taught me how difficult it is to truly expose yourself. How frightening it is to be vulnerable in front of others. And how, despite everything, it is still worth trying.