I started in 2022, like everyone else, thinking I would sell books and join the 1% of rich authors.

Then, as the years went by, I realized the ending had already been written by others.
Mine would have to be different. Unpredictable.

By 2025 the first facts were on the table:
three websites, sixty-two eBooks, 220 languages, 2,300 publications, 106 posts.

That was just the appetizer.
The first course was still FREE.
The second was the INTERVIEW.
And the side dish was NO MONEY.
The good part had not even started.

For the interviews, the curious ones had already excluded themselves.
I wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular.
Just a man and his smile.
But I was fascinated by the idea that it could be an American woman—very intelligent—without knowing who she was, without noir fantasies.
Maybe a dream.
One of those dreams that, if you don’t have them, you have no future.

And then the phone rang.
Prefix +1.
No escape.
It was coming from my home—my America.

“Good morning, this is Margareth, calling from New York. Forgive my Italian, I am the manager of the media channel… I hope I am not disturbing you. Am I speaking with Mr. FREGA Sun? Do you have time for me?”

It is her—the woman for whom I have been waiting.
But prudence is never too much.

“Yes, it is me. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to get to know you.”

“Are you looking for a boyfriend?”
“No, Ahahahah. Just an INTERVIEW.”

I ask for her number so I can call her back in 15 minutes to leave the restroom and recover from the emotion.

She agrees.

I call back.
A switchboard answers.
The identity leaves no doubt: it is her American network.
They transfer me to her office.
First filter: her assistant.
Then her.

We open the conversation.

Eleven minutes.
Enough for questions and answers.
But she needs to talk to her board before giving me a final confirmation.
They consider the commitment important.
They are Americans: if they spend one, it must return at least 2.5.

She is thrown off by my language, even though she knows my mother well.
But it is the first time she meets one of her Italian sons.

She asks my age, but first she tells me she is forty-one.

I answer: “Depends on what you want to take. I am a man with three ages: the mind is eighty, the heart is forty, the intimacy is eighteen.”

She starts laughing like crazy.
She has already started the interview and she knows it.
But she is captured by what comes after.

“It is 12:45 pm in New York. In two hours, I will call you with an answer. But promise me you will not commit to anyone else.”

For a Calabrian, a word is honor.
Not vowels thrown in the air without scent.
She keeps laughing.

We ended the call.
Her timing is not mine.

Everything starts here.
But it can also end right now.

Nando

A woman arrived: I was her last, and she was my first.