The Boy's Name Was Santiago

How I Became a Storyteller

15 years ago, Langkawi, Malaysia

I got up and flip-flopped slowly to the common area of the guesthouse. I stared at the playing monkeys, ordered a beer, and wanted to shuffle back when a cupboard filled with books got my attention.

Left-behind-books. Given up by their previous owner. Waiting for a new one.

I browsed through them until I had one that was utterly worn out in my hands. It felt dirty. And yet it called to me.

It started with this sentence: “The boy’s name was Santiago.”

Before I finished my beer, I read the first pages. The sentences were short. The words were easy to understand. This book was there for me.