Out of My Hands

With Lucky Me no longer in my hands and the launch just days away, I took a trip to South America with my wife, traveling through Argentina, Chile, and Brazil.

During the first few days, I still found myself thinking about the novel, even working on its translations into Portuguese and Polish. But by the time we reached Patagonia, I finally began to relax. I needed to. And I totally enjoyed it. Climbing the peaks of Torres del Paine, horseback riding with gauchos, tasting vintage Malbec in Mendoza . . .

In Iguazú National Park, we saw a full-moon rainbow arcing over the waterfalls. Something I never thought existed, a moonbow, they call it. A bit ghostly, without the full spectrum of color but breathtaking. It was just the two of us, at midnight, and I had never felt more alive.

There’s an old Portuguese saying about seamen, how different they are. It goes something like this: There are people who live their lives, those who have died, and those who have gone to sea. Maybe the same applies to writers, who so often "hover" above their own lives —

watching, reflecting, reinterpreting, even staging them — rather than simply living.