Before there was a novel,
there were books I wasn’t supposed to own.
It was 1998… Summer. I was just eleven years old.
I used to get up early and run to the newsstand to buy a newspaper that is no longer in circulation, though back then, it was all the rage.
7 a.m… The shop was still shuttered. I’d wait. Finally, someone would come and open the door—and I’d rush in right after them.
Only three out of ten papers had the free book tucked inside. I’d grab one, hide it under my T-shirt, and run home with it.
I’d sneak in quietly, and while the whole house was still asleep, I’d hide behind the living room armchair and finish the book before breakfast.
Sometimes I’d fall asleep right there, from waking up so early. I’d wake to my mother tugging gently on my ear.
Oh—before I forget, those books were always simplified versions of the world’s great classics.
Madame Bovary, Les Misérables, The Captain’s Daughter, Wuthering Heights, Don Quixote, and more…
We weren’t well-off as a family. Even getting a book gifted by a newspaper required serious sacrifice.
These books were only included as weekend inserts—Saturday and Sunday—and I remember the ads would start airing on TV at the beginning of the week.
Naturally, I’d start begging my mother by Tuesday.
But nothing ever really changed.
Until school started, I collected every single one of those books like a devoted little collector.
What was the harm anyway? A little pleading, a bit of drama, maybe some crocodile tears.
Wasn’t it worth it? Buying a world you knew you’d never belong to, all for just a few coins.
Wasn’t it worth it? To travel the entire world on a shoestring. (Like in Around the World in 80 Days)
To fall hopelessly in love with a man you’ve never even met.
That’s how it all began.
On those scorched summer days, I sat under the worm-ridden poplar tree in front of our house, chewing on a twig, reading and reading.
All the neighborhood kids had gone on vacation, and the best thing I could do was travel in my imagination to the places they actually went.
What else could I have done?
I grew up. The way everyone does.
Attending a high school with its own library must’ve been a gift from fate.
It was so vast that I’d spend the entire 45-minute lunch break just wandering between the shelves—and still not manage to read even two lines before the bell rang.
Back then, I was eager to write poetry. I didn’t quite know what it meant to be in love, but of course, I was a romantic.
But I realized something strange—my poems weren’t for real people. They were for characters I knew from books.
They were the people of my imaginary world. I didn’t need them to love me. It was enough that I loved them.
But even my poetry couldn’t bear the weight of that misplaced romanticism—it didn’t last long.
One day, my history teacher found me in the library and asked,
“Why don’t you write prose instead?”
I had been toying with the idea, but writing stories seemed much harder.
Still, he encouraged me—and just like that, my journey into short story writing began with a spark.
But there was one major problem: words didn’t come easily.
I needed to read much more. So I did—more, and more, and more.
I especially fell in love with Russian and French literature.
(My fondness for French literature—and everything about France—might have something to do with my mother working with the French.)
Frank… He was my beginning.
And then came Daniel, Naldo, Johannes, and the others…
A story that begins in America, stretches into Canada, and eventually reaches all the way to Mexico.
It’s a story about a man’s transformation through loss—about second chances and the invisible threads of family.
You’ll learn more about the characters on this page in time. But for now, I’d rather not say too much about them.
This is a story nearly everyone has lived in some shape or form…
Life’s righteous slap to our pride, our arrogance, our untouchable little egos.
My aim was to somehow reach the end of the road I set out on to become the person I longed to be.
In this life, I’ve yet to do a single “best” thing.
Maybe this won’t be the best either—but in the end, everyone wants to do something that matters.
In the end, everyone transforms… They must.
When you read this book, you’ll begin to notice what you’ve become—and maybe, how you now see those in your life.