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Amazon Best Books of the Month, March 2012: At age 26, following the death of her mother, divorce, and a run of
reckless behavior, Cheryl Strayed found herself alone near the foot of the Pacific Crest Trail--inexperienced,
over-equipped, and desperate to reclaim her life. Wild tracks Strayed's personal journey on the PCT through California
and Oregon, as she comes to terms with devastating loss and her unpredictable reactions to it. While readers looking for
adventure or a naturalist's perspective may be distracted by the emotional odyssey at the core of the story, Wild
vividly describes the grueling life of the long-distance hiker, the ubiquitous perils of the PCT, and its peculiar
community of wanderers. Others may find her unsympathetic--just one victim of her own questionable choices. But Strayed
doesn't want sympathy, and her confident prose stands on its own, deftly pulling both threads into a story that inhabits
a unique riparian zone between wilderness tale and personal-redemption memoir. --Jon Foro
From Author Cheryl Strayed
Oprah and Cheryl StrayedOprah with Cheryl Strayed, author of Book Club 2.0's inaugural selection, Wild. 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.