Good news: despite a pretty silly and unprofessional mistake, the publisher is rushing to fix the mistake and everything should be righted by next week. More good news: Amazon and Barnes and Noble have received my book’s info and Somewhere Over the Sun should be available for purchase in the next few days. There is no exact date, but check back for the next few days, either with those sites or on here, since I’ll indubitably let you know as soon as I know (side note: indubitably is one of my favorite words, by far).
Moving on! I live in Mexico now.
I didn’t lie in my author bio when I said that I’m probably in the northwestern hemisphere for who knows how long. I don’t know how long I’ll be living back home (Mexico City). A few numbers are to blame, but, as my Spanish Literature teacher used to say, let’s not speak of sad things. Which isn’t to say sad things aren’t worth talking about. Sad things make such pretty songs. But instead of that, I’ll dwell on all the pleasures I can still derive from this life. And I invite you to as well.
I flew today, which is by far one of my favorite things to do. It’s not an overwhelming, body-tingling joy, but it’s one of those subtle, buzzing joys that I recognize as undeniably true. I love airports and the stories hidden behind the passengers in them. I actually enjoy the loud hum of engine forcing me to turn my iPod up way higher than I would ever be able to stand it. I love flying east and how you can fast-forward to sunset-time, but the sun itself sets slowly, the whole sky blazing a slow-motion pink.
Mexico City stretches out forever below the plane. I always forget how massive it is, until the lights below have been going for ten minutes, and I start to wonder if the plane’s slowed down since there’s no way the city could outlast those jet engines.
One final, partially disconnected thought. I’m giving you a little excerpt of Somewhere Over the Sun. The paragraphs below are written in the point of view of M, a Brazilian and Alan’s long-time editor and fellow lover of language.
People ask me what language I dream in. If they’re surprised at my response, it’s because they have a misconception about what a native tongue is. I still adore Portuguese, still speak it fluently, still revert back to it in moments of anger, when an English curse word just can’t quite express the exact insult I want to hurl at a proofreader.
But I fell in love with the English language long ago, and she’s the one I dream about. A native tongue, in my opinion, isn’t the language spoken where you were born or the first language you learned; it’s a language that makes you feel at home. It’s a language that you don’t command, but that commands you. And without it, you’d feel lost, unsure of how to express to the world everything you care enough to express.
I missed Spanish and am excited to be back in its river of rolling ‘r’s, but there’s no doubt as to what language I dream in.
