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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.
Interesting to read as I live close to the PCT and have been hiking a small portion of it. She made me angry though with her naivety and stupidity regarding hiking the trail! Read morePublished 1 hour ago by Louisa May Alcott
Stirred a desire to go on an adventure of my own. It is nice to see that people struggle with identity and share their stories of how to recover it.Published 2 hours ago by Meaghan
What an amazing story full of self-exploration, emotions,and challenges. I truly enjoyed taking this journey with Cheryl. Inspirational and honest.Published 3 hours ago by Amanda
It took me a while to get started reading, however once I did I was able to relate my life experiences with those of her on the trail. Read morePublished 3 hours ago by Thea Dirton
Do not waste you money, time,eye muscles or brain power. This was the worst
book I've ever read. This book reminded me why I don't do book clubs. Read more
I'm actually not even done yet, but I can't put this one down - though I read at bedtime so slowly. I'm so drawn to Cheryl's story of being lost and gradually finding herself. Read morePublished 7 hours ago by Karyl Griffin
Terrible book, for all the reasons eloquently stated in other negative reviews.Published 8 hours ago by S. Wheeler
The only disappointment the book offered was that it ended. I loved every moment of it. Thank you, Cheryl Strayed.Published 8 hours ago by peggy lant