I don't want to spoil anything or come across as presumptuous about its potential. But I often wonder: when we're old, how will we look back on life? Will we all have lived the same way, or would we choose different paths if we had the chance to live it over?

That's where The Freedom Offered to Natasha Duvnjak comes from—a journey beyond expectations, to escape that "Damn, I'm old, life has passed me by, and what have I done? Worked nine hours a day and taken a few stupid week-long trips."

I wrote the first half of the manuscript by the lake, in a chiringuito; each three-hour session was fueled by exactly two Tennent's—not one less, not one more—for four months.

It's almost finished, but I need more time for editing and corrections—a matter of economics. I'll wrap up the last pages in Sicily, at home. Finally.

After fifteen years of wandering the world, I've found some stability by buying a house: I'll finish it gazing at the bronze of Icarus fallen beneath the Temple of Concordia, that mortal, presumed angel with broken wings, while thinking of her and sipping lemonade through a straw.

One of my favorite singers once said: "You forced me not to see you, not to call you, but you can't force me not to think of you."

My favorite book? Maybe. This one has the taste of home.

One more thing: I want to wholeheartedly thank the girl who gave me the idea for this magnificent novel, in my opinion.

A true story? Yes and no.
A story that could have become true?
Yes.

 

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