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I wrote the last line of my first book, Torch, and then spent an hour crying while lying on a cool tile floor in a house on a hot Brazilian island. After I finished my second book, Wild, I walked alone for miles under a clear blue sky on an empty road in the Oregon Outback. I sat bundled in my coat on a cold patio at midnight staring up at the endless December stars after completing my third book, Tiny Beautiful Things. There are only a handful of other days in my life--my wedding, the births of my children--that I remember as vividly as those solitary days on which I finished my books. The settings and situations were different, but the feeling was the same: an overwhelming mix of joy and gratitude, humility and relief, pride and wonder. After much labor, I'd made this thing. A book. Though it wasn't technically that yet.
The real book came later--after more work, but this time it involved various others, including agents, publishers, editors, designers, and publicists, all of whose jobs are necessary but sometimes indecipherable to me. They're the ones who transformed the thousands of words I'd privately and carefully conjured into something that could be shared with other people. "I wrote this!" I exclaimed in amazement when I first held each actual, physical book in my hands. I wasn't amazed that it existed; I was amazed by what its existence meant: that it no longer belonged to me.
Two months before Wild was published I stood on a Mexican beach at sunset with my family assisting dozens of baby turtles on their stumbling journey across the sand, then watching as they disappeared into the sea. The junction between writer and author is a bit like that. In one role total vigilance is necessary; in the other, there's nothing to do but hope for the best. A book, like those newborn turtles, will ride whatever wave takes it.
It's deeply rewarding to me when I learn that something I wrote moved or inspired or entertained someone; and it's crushing to hear that my writing bored or annoyed or enraged another. But an author has to stand back from both the praise and the criticism once a book is out in the world. The story I chose to write in Wild for no other reason than I felt driven to belongs to those who read it, not me. And yet I'll never forget what it once was, long before I could even imagine how gloriously it would someday be swept away from me.
It wasn't what I thought it would be. I found it to drag out a little. Lots of insight though and I can certainly praise Cheryl for her determination to get her life together. Read morePublished 1 hour ago by Diana
The story was fairly enjoyable and very easy to read, but I found by about half way through the repetition and descriptions were getting tedious and I just wanted to skip to the... Read morePublished 3 hours ago by Rebecca
I felt as though I was there on the PCT. This is a profound read for anyone who has ever "strayed" and needs to find themselves. Read it slowly and savor it.Published 5 hours ago by Janie Lloyd
As an experienced backpacker, there were times when I felt a kinship with the author Cheryl Strayed. Read more
I have to say I was a little disappointed in this book. I really wanted to like it more than I did. The idea of setting off on a trail by yourself and hearing the experiences of... Read morePublished 8 hours ago by Griperang
Now this is a good book. This book makes you feel like you're going with Cheryl Strayed on her journey/hike. I loved the story, and I loved her writing style.Published 8 hours ago by Margaret Mitchell
This book has profoundly affected me. I first read it a few months after my husband died. It helped me enter into my grief when I was trying to run away. Read morePublished 12 hours ago by Trinity
I'm from W state originally and live in AZ now (hoping to return one day). Following Cheryl through her journey was an accurate description of the dichotomy between the harsh... Read morePublished 14 hours ago by Chantell J. Cornett