By the end of 2015, I was falling into a hard-to-cure addiction: I wrote often (really often) on a blog about languages (and other personal crazes). Its title doesn't really matter, let me just tell you that the blog still exists. Well, on that New Year's Eve, somewhere by the sea, in the South of Portugal, while the people around me were counting the numbers backwards from 10, waiting for the excitement of reaching 0, and as I was stuffing raisins in my mouth (dropping frizzy grapes on the floor is bad luck, as we know) — I made up my mind. That year was to be the year I would finally publish a book. People say we need to do three things in life: plant a tree, have a child, write a book. I already had my son, I remember vaguely planting a tree in Primary School — all that was missing was the book (and planting a few more trees to compensate). On top of that, from time to time, I received messages from readers of my blog saying they liked reading my rather long articles, but they would love even more to read them on paper.
I gathered the best texts from that blog and launched into the ether proposals to editors. One of them, for some reason, thought it was publishable: Manuel S. Fonseca, from Guerra e Paz. We had a book! It didn't even take long: in April of that same year, while the noise of the end-of-the-year party was still echoing in my ears, the book was already out. It was about secrets and our language, and even told a few stories about words from Peniche, my home town.