FEATURED AUTHOR: GILDA MORINA SYVERSON

About the Book:

In this multigenerational memoir, My Father's Daughter, From Rome to Sicily, our author travels with her Italian-born father, Italian-American mother, and very-American husband to the villages of her ancestors. This trilogy tale leads the reader through ancient sites of Rome, landscapes of a picturesque countryside, seaside villages of Sicily, olive trees in the valley of Mount Etna, while contrasting an emotional journey between a father and daughter.

Former North Carolina Poet Laureate, Joseph Bathanti, says, "My Father's Daughter: From Rome to Sicily is a travel book in every sense. Syverson - a savvy, funny, elegant tour guide - expertly escorts us through the gorgeous time-locked terrain of Italy, but also along the often precarious byways of the heart. This book risks everything: its humanity, its courage, its sheer unbridled candor, the moving sweep of its poetic language, and its refusal to turn away from the breathtaking mystery of love and ancestry.

If you have more than one published book, please name them and include a sales URL. (Not just a link—I need the URL, starting with http.)
 http://mainstreetrag.com/bookstore/product/facing-the-dragon/
In This Dream Everything Remains Inside http://mainstreetrag.com/bookstore/product/in-this-dream-everything-remains-inside/

INTERVIEW WITH GILDA MORINA SYVERSON

Do you have another job outside of writing?
Yes, I also teach memoir writing!

Which character did you most enjoy writing?
Truth be told, I probably most enjoyed writing my father because I could say exactly what I was thinking, like he always did. When the book was finished and he read it, he didn't mind what I said one bit.

What would your main character say about you?
There are really a few main characters. My character, me, would say: "A bit obsessive, perhaps?" Dad's character would say, "I don't care what you say, as long as you talk about me." 

What song would you pick to go with your book?
Andrea Bocelli's "Time to Say Goodbye."

What book are you currently reading and in what format?
My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante. Paperback.

Where and when do you prefer to do your writing?
I love to start writing by sitting up in bed and writing in my journal, either early in the morning or late at night.

Where’s home for you?
Now, home is in North Carolina.

Where did you grow up?
Syracuse, New York.

What’s your favorite memory?
I write memoir and poetry and have a slew of memories. One that has made a difference in my life was traveling to Quebec city from Syracuse when I was about six years old with my father, my mother, my sister Nicki, my brother Anthony, and my grandmother that I was named after, Nonna Egidia. Nonna is a character in my memoir that readers have commented on.

Have you been in any natural disasters?
Mostly ones I create in my head.

What makes you happy?
Stu. In the book you'll see why. I take life way too seriously, and Stu makes me laugh a lot, even at myself.

What makes you excited?
Traveling. I love to travel, if I can get past the thought of leaving my home, I'm ready to fly.   

How did you meet your spouse?
I met my husband Stu at a Halloween party. Love at first sight? I tried to ignore that possibility, but there was real attraction there that day and it has never gone away.

Would you rather work in a library or a bookstore?
They are both appealing. Probably a library.

Where is your favorite library, and what do you love about it?
I love Boston Public Library on Boylston Street. Probably because it's in Boston, and I love that city. Although the main branch of the New York Public is appealing too. There are so many layers to large libraries. While I'm at it, I've always been impressed with the Charlotte Mecklenburg Library System, because they will transport any book from anywhere in the county for you. And then there is that wonderful little red library I fell in love with as a child - it's no longer there on Nichols Avenue. A new one was built in its place, although it is hardly new anymore. I remember the exact corner that drew me in. Can you tell I love libraries!

You can be any fictional character for one day. Who would you be?
Pippi Longstocking! For today anyway. Tomorrow I could make another choice.

Why did you decide to publish with a traditional publisher)?
I decided to publish with Laura Ponticello of Divine Phoenix and Pegasus Books because she was as passionate about my story as I have been. We immediately connected. 

Are you happy with your decision to publish with them?
I can't imagine any other publisher giving my story and me as much attention and as much caring as Laura Ponticello has given. I am beyond happy with my decision.

What do you like to do when you’re not writing?
I love to walk in the woods, on greenways, on the beach - anywhere in nature.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where in the world would it be?
England!

What are you working on now?
Right now I am working on supporting my memoir and the message behind why I think memoir is so important. If we don't write our own stories they will die with us.

I am teaching classes and workshops, sending out articles about my own recent memoir writing experiences.

BOOK EXCERPT:

Sunday, October 15


Bright lights on the digital alarm blink 5:00 a.m. Five o’clock? What in the world am I doing awake? And what is this inner voice nagging me about room reservations in Rome? Something doesn’t feel right. Today? Sunday. Tomorrow is Monday. We’re leaving — Mom, Dad, Stu and me — for our trip to Italy and Sicily.

Why this message now and not when the itinerary arrived two months ago? Wait. I did wonder why the address for the hotel was different from what Carol, our travel agent, gave me on the phone. Why didn’t I pay attention to those feelings when the reservations first arrived?

I’ve been to Italy half a dozen times. Anything’s possible there. The building could be on a side alley, the address on the main road. Carol referred to the place as Hotel Columbus, and in her next breath called it Hotel Cristoforo Colombo.

It didn’t seem unusual to hear her use English and then Italian. After all, we both have Italian backgrounds. That’s why I used Carol to make the flight arrangements. I even chuckled when she rolled those rich flowing vowels off her tongue. Maybe I shouldn’t be so friendly and focus strictly on business.

One night on the Internet, I looked up the Hotel Columbus. Just like Carol had said, the address was Via della Conciliazione, Numero 34. The ad even touted that they were only blocks from the Vatican. I assumed the street address on the itinerary was simply an error. How many Christopher Columbus Hotels could there be, anyway? It wasn’t a chain — that much I knew.

At different times in my life, I’ve learned to let go and let others do things for me. But it didn’t come easy. Being the second oldest of eight children, I’ve often felt overly responsible.

I can’t be in charge of absolutely everything. At least that’s what I’ve tried to tell myself after having moved away from my large Italian-American family. Besides, our agent is not just any fly-by-night. She’s been in the business for over thirty years specializing in trips to Italy.

Now, here I am the morning before we’re supposed to leave, and I can’t stop churning. If I don’t get back to sleep, I’ll wake my husband. There’s no sense in both Stu and me being sleep deprived. I slip out of bed, climb the stairs to my art studio and quietly close the door. I hate following up after Carol, but I’m calling that hotel in Rome.

“Buon giorno,” I say in my best Italian. “Parla Inglese?”

I’ve learned that if anyone there admits to speaking English, his or her verbal skills are much more fluent than my broken Italian. Luigi, the person on the other end of the phone, takes my last name and my parents‟ name, then asks for our reservation numbers.

“No problema,” Luigi says in his rich accent; we are booked.

To be absolutely sure, I say, “Now this is the Hotel Columbus two blocks from the Vatican, correct?”

“No, not correct,” Luigi replies. “We are about fifteen kilometers from the Vatican.”

Fifteen kilometers doesn’t register. I envision fifteen yards, fifteen feet, fifteen anything but kilometers.

“Si,” I repeat, “fifteen kilometers is right down the street from the Vatican, correct?”

“No, not correct,” he says again. “Kilometers, kilometers,” he repeats, pronouncing each syllable—key lom e tours.

And then it hits me.

“KILOMETERS?” I bellow, “But my travel agent said that you were in walking distance of the Vatican.”

“We are not,” he says. “You will have to take a bus or a tassi.”

Frantic, I hang up furious with myself for not having listened to my intuition after the itinerary arrived months ago. I ignored that internal voice trying to tell me something was awry and assumed my imagination had gotten the best of me, as I’ve been told most of my life it did.

I click on the Internet and find the phone number for the other Hotel Columbus and call. A woman named Stefania also replies yes to my question about speaking English.

“I’m sorry, Madam,” she says, “We do not have your name.”

She doesn’t have the reservation number that I read off either. Obviously, the confirmation system at one hotel is different from another. But I am grasping here. It’s pretty apparent that our reservations are with the first place I called.

I’m going to Rome with my mother and father, seventy- three and seventy-six, respectively. Although they’re not old, they’re not young and used to traveling either. And we’re not even staying close to the Vatican.

My father attends Mass every day, sometimes twice. Mom is not compulsive about daily Mass, but she is excited about being within walking distance from what we’ve always been taught is the seat of Catholicism.


Thanks to Stu, my Episcopalian husband, we’re scheduled to see Pope John Paul II in St. Peter's piazza the morning after we arrive in Italy. Stu's nephew's wife’s father, a colonel in the U.S. Army, had once been stationed at the American Embassy in Rome, and he was able to arrange a papal audience for us. Well, the four of us and about 8,000 other people.

The plan is to walk to the piazza from our hotel. Since the year 2000 is the Catholic Church’s Jubilee Celebration, we do not want to fight the traffic with the thousands of pilgrims who will be flooding Vatican City from all areas of the capital. Even though the main impetus for the trip is to visit my parents' ancestral towns in Sicily, how can we go to Italy with my folks and not visit Rome?

Now on the other end of the phone, Stefania, the woman from the hotel near the Vatican, is trying to calm my rattled nerves.

“Madam, stay in the hotel that you have a reservation for and then try to find another place after you arrive. Rooms are scarce here,” she continues. “You are lucky to have one at all.”

Lucky is not how I’m feeling. I explain to Stefania how my parents are older, that it’s my mother’s first trip abroad, and we are willing take any available rooms. After several apologies and her sympathy, Stefania says they are totally booked. Exasperated, I go back to bed and crawl beneath the covers. So much for trying not to rouse my husband.
“Stu,” I whisper, “Those hotel reservations in Rome... they’re not at all near the Vatican.”

His eyes pop open.

Now we’re both awake for the day. I wait until almost 8:30 before I call our travel agent at home. Carol and I spend most of Sunday on and off the phone. Even though she looks on numerous Internet sites for another place near the Vatican, none of her attempts meet with success.

About the Author

Gilda Morina Syverson, artist, poet, writer and teacher, was born and raised in a large, Italian-American family in Syracuse, New York. Her heritage is the impetus for her memoir My Father’s Daughter, From Rome to Sicily. Gilda’s story was a Novello Literary Award Finalist previously entitled Finding Bottom: an Italian-American woman’s journey to the old country.

Gilda’s award-winning poems and prose have appeared in literary journals, magazines and anthologies in the United States and Canada. She is also the author of the full-length poetry book, Facing the Dragon, and the chapbook, In This Dream Everything Remains Inside. Her commentaries have been aired on WFAE, Charlotte, N.C.’s public radio station.

Gilda moved to Charlotte, North Carolina after having received an MFA in Fine Arts from Southern Illinois University. She received a Bachelor of Science Degree in Art Education from Buffalo State College. Gilda has taught in the Creative Arts for over 35 years including memoir classes and workshops for Queens University of Charlotte, The Warehouse Performing Arts Center in Cornelius, North Carolina and at various other locations. Her fine art has been exhibited regionally, nationally, and internationally. Her angel drawings and prints are in a number of collections throughout the United States, Canada, and Italy.

Gilda lives outside of Charlotte, N.C. with her husband Stu.

Connect with Gilda:
Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads 

Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads 

Book excerpt from Wander Home

Wander Home's book blurb:
Death is what you make it...Eleanor never wanted to leave the daughter she loved so much. The overpowering urge to wander--to search without knowing what she sought--drove her away. She left little Cassidy in her family's loving care. But Cassidy and the others died in an accident before Eleanor could fine her way home. Cassidy has her grandparents and her Great-Grandma. And all of them have what may be eternity. Memories can be relived or shared. The wonders of the world they left behind are only a thought away. The one-way tyranny of aging is no more--a white-haired and stooped great-grandmother one moment can be a laughing young playmate the next. But nothing can ease Cassidy's longing for her mother, and Eleanor's parents know better than to hope that Eleanor's life has been a happy one. Now, they are all reunited, with the chance to understand and heal. But the restlessness that shaped Eleanor's life still haunts her in death. Somehow, she must solve the mystery of her life--or none of them will be at peace.



PREFACE



This book is set in an afterlife: what sort of afterlife, the reader may 
decide.





Chapter One



Cassidy stood tall and watched the wave approaching. Fifteen was a good age
for confronting the ocean. That morning she had been five years old, playing
happily in her sandbox;  from sand to beach, from beach to ocean waves,
seemed a natural progression.



The wave loomed above her, glowing turquoise and green. She dove under the
crest, through the surging water, and popped up behind the swell, bobbing in
the follower waves. The water held her and rocked her; over the hiss and
roar of the waves, she could hear the distant squawk of seagulls. All around
was the smell of seaweed and salt and sunshine.



Once, her mother had held her, carried her, rocked her, surrounded her with 
love and safety. She had no idea how long it had been, but she remembered.
 Remembering, she let herself slip younger as she floated on the swells. But 
larger waves were coming, so she grew again, six, ten, sixteen; then caught 
a wave and rode it into shore.



Her grandparents and her great-grandmother were waiting for her.
 Great-Grandma was young today, slim and blonde and straight, standing like a
 dancer just before the music starts. Grandma Sarah and Grandpa Jack had
 chosen to be older, gray-haired, with the comfortable look of a couple who
 for years have weathered each other's moods and followed each other's 
thoughts.



Cassidy ran up the beach toward them. She slipped to eight years old as she
 reached them, so Grandpa Jack could pick her up and toss her in the air. The 
sun flashed in her eyes as she flew up, and again as she fell back toward 
his hands. He set her down again and flopped onto the sand, patting the
 space next to him. She sat, folding her legs tailor fashion; Great-Grandma 
flowed gracefully down to sit on her other side. Only Grandma Sarah remained
 standing, younger now, her hair in a long red braid.



Grandpa Jack and Great-Grandma both put their arms around her. Cassidy 
looked at Grandpa Jack. He was blinking as if he had something in both his 
eyes. She swiveled around toward Great-Grandma; Great-Grandma nodded toward
 Grandma Sarah.



Cassidy threw her head back, looking up at Grandma Sarah and squinting in 
the sun. Grandma Sarah squatted down in front of her. "Cassie, love, we have
some news for you. Good, important news."



The seabirds were calling as if they wanted to be first with the message,
 whatever it was. Grandma Sarah leaned forward to kneel in the sand, reached 
out and took Cassidy's hands.


"It's your mother, sweetheart. She's coming. She'll be here soon. We'll all 
be seeing her again."



Cassidy felt herself getting smaller, small. She was two years old. She
 scrambled to her feet. "Mommy!"  Her own shrill voice frightened her, and 
she called even louder, twisting from side to side, searching the beach and
 the water. "Mommy!  MOMMY!"



Great-Grandma had slipped old, white hair shining in the sunlight, her
 cheeks pink, soft wrinkles in her face, smelling of flour. She pulled 
Cassidy close, crooning, "Hush, hush. It's all right, baby. Shhhh."  Cassidy
 burrowed against her and breathed the comforting scent. She thought she 
might feel better if she got big again, but nothing happened.



She heard Grandpa Jack speak. "Mama, Sarah, let's go somewhere cozier."
 Then the sun, the waves, the seabirds were all gone, and they were in 
Great-Grandma's living room. She was snuggled up next to Great-Grandma on 
the big shabby couch. There were shortbread cookies on the coffee table.
 Grandma Sarah sat on Grandpa Jack's lap in the big armchair, Grandpa Jack
 playing with Grandma Sarah's hair.



"Cassidy, honey, it's time to be a big girl. We have more to talk about."
 Great-Grandma stroked her cheek, then kissed it.



Cassidy squeezed her eyes tight. "I'm trying. It's hard. Why is it hard?" 



Grandpa Jack spoke. "Well, baby, you were just this age when your mama left.
 You're remembering it so hard, right now, that you're maybe a little stuck.
 Relax, honey, and know that everything's all right. It'll come."



Cassidy took a deep breath, and another, and another. Great-Grandma 
skootched away to give her room. Cassidy opened her eyes. She was thirteen
 years old. She reached for a cookie.



"There, that's better, isn't it?" Great-Grandma picked out a cookie for
herself and took a hearty bite.



"When will she be here?  When can I see her?"



Grandma Sarah brought Cassidy a glass of milk, then sat back down on Grandpa
Jack's lap. "Honey, those are two different questions. She'll be here very 
soon, and you can see her just a little while after that. It's going to be
-"



"Why can't I see her right away?" She didn't want to yell at Grandma Sarah, 
but she felt like yelling. It was always harder to be patient at thirteen. 
She slipped to twenty, but it felt wrong, too big, too grown up for a little 
girl missing her mother. She slid back to ten.



"Cassie, you were so young when you got here, only six years old. You
 weren't set in your ways yet - you expected to learn new things every day,
 to have adventures and surprises. Coming here was just another and bigger 
adventure. But it's different for older people. It's more of a shock. We 
think it'd be best if Great-Grandma welcomes her first, and explains 
things."



"How long will that take?" Cassidy swallowed tears and washed them away 
with a gulp of milk.

 Great-Grandma moved back over and hugged her. 

"Not as long as it will feel 
to you. I'll bring her to see you as soon as I can."

About the author:
Karen A. Wyle was born a Connecticut Yankee, but moved every few years
 throughout her childhood and adolescence. After college in California, law
school in Massachusetts, and a mercifully short stint in a large San 
Francisco law firm, she moved to Los Angeles, where she met her now-husband, 
who hates L.A. They eventually settled in Bloomington, Indiana, home of
 Indiana University.



Wyle's childhood ambition was to be the youngest ever published novelist. 
While writing her first novel at age ten, she was mortified to learn that 
some British upstart had beaten her to the goal at age nine. 



Wyle has been a voracious and compulsive reader as long as she can remember. 
Do not strand this woman on a plane without reading matter! Wyle was an
 English and American Literature major at Stanford University, which suited
 her, although she has in recent years developed some doubts about whether 
studying literature is, for most people, a good preparation for enjoying it. 
Her most useful preparation for writing novels, besides reading them, has 
been the practice of appellate law -- in other words, writing large
 quantities of persuasive prose, on deadline, year after year.  



Wyle's voice is the product of almost five decades of reading both literary
 and genre fiction. It is no doubt also influenced, although she hopes not
fatally tainted, by her years of law practice. Her personal history has led
 her to focus on often-intertwined themes of family, communication, the 
impossibility of controlling events, and the persistence of unfinished
 business.


Find Karen:
Karen's website
Karen's Facebook page

Talking With Author Karen Wyle

Author Karen Wyle is here to talk about her book, Wander Home, a family drama with mystery elements set in an afterlife. Before we begin, take a look at a little more about Karen's book.

About Wander Home:  
Death is what you make it. . . .  Eleanor never wanted to leave the daughter she loved so much. The overpowering urge to wander -- to search, without knowing what she sought -- drove her away. She left little Cassidy in her family's loving care. But Cassidy and the others died in an accident before Eleanor could find her way home.  Cassidy has her grandparents, and her Great-Grandma. And all of them have what may be eternity. Memories can be relived, or shared. The wonders of the world they left behind are only a thought away. The one-way tyranny of aging is no more -- a white-haired and stooped great-grandmother one moment can be a laughing young playmate the next.  But nothing can ease Cassidy's longing for her mother; and Eleanor's parents know better than to hope that Eleanor's life has been a happy one.  Now, they are all reunited, with the chance to understand and heal. But the restlessness that shaped Eleanor's life still haunts her in death. Somehow, she must solve the mystery of her life -- or none of them will be at peace.

Hi, Karen, and welcome to A Blue Million Books. Let's begin with your thoughts on writing. What do you like best about it?
I love having a story or its characters surprise me--for example, when an element I added casually or for one purpose turns out to be important for some quite different reason.

I know exactly what you mean! What’s your least favorite thing about writing?
The hardest part of writing, for me, is fighting the invisibility of self-published work by new authors. But my least favorite aspect might be the constant threat of carpal tunnel syndrome.

I’ve never had trouble with carpal tunnel, but I’m with you on the invisibility thing. How did you come up with the title of your book?

I'm basically bad at naming things, tending toward the dull and literal. My daughters' special sleep-toys were named Special Bear and Puppy. I once had a coffee plant named Coffee. My first novel, Twin-Bred, was named for the human-alien fraternal twins who bore that label in the book. So I had quite a time finding a title for my second novel.

I started with the working title "Reflections," which had some subtle connection to aspects of the book. Various people following my progress, and then some beta readers, found that title boring and thought it didn't (so to speak) reflect the book well enough. I also realized that it had been used quite often, and that one recent book with the almost-identical title Reflection had some thematic overlap with my novel. I came up with a few alternatives that sounded like romance or YA, when my novel was neither. After that, I started reading poetry, hoping that a line would jump out and declare itself a good fit for my book. For a while, I was ready to go with "The Story of Our Days," from a somewhat-appropriate poem by Sir Walter Raleigh – but it reminded me and too many others of the soap opera Days of Our Lives . . . . My next candidate, "Nor Whence Nor Whither," was adapted from a stanza in The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam – but not even the people who liked it could remember it. 
Finally, I spent some time thinking about my book and free-associating words and phrases, writing them all down and reading them over and over. My final two possibilities were "The Road Behind" and the title I finally chose, Wander Home. I liked the feel of the latter, and its slightly paradoxical and somewhat optimistic connotations suited me.

I like it too. Good choice! Did you have any say in your cover art?
As a self-published author, I had total control of my cover art, within my technical limitations – which are substantial. I needed to collaborate with designers to realize my ideas.


I wanted faces on this cover, although I know the arguments against using faces. After a couple of attempts to find an artist to draw my characters, I decided to use stock photos that came close to how I imagined them. I encountered some frustrations in this process: in one case, the version of a photo that I saw online and fell in love with was subtly but crucially different when I bought and downloaded the full-size file. The photos I ended up using don't completely match my character descriptions, but they're close enough to content me, and they're wonderfully striking photographs. (The photographer credits are in the front matter of the book.)

Tell us about the artist. 

Two designers in a row had the unenviable task of coping with my many requests for tweaks. (The first one eventually dropped out of the process; the second, Michelle Hartz, who is also an author and our local NaNoWriMo municipal liaison, picked up where the first left off and actually still talks to me.)

What do you think of it?

I'm very pleased with the final result!

Sophie’s choice: Do you have a favorite of your characters?

It'd be a close competition between Eleanor's father Jack and Jack's mother Amanda. Jack is a big strong hunk who's not afraid of strong and somewhat dominating women (including his wife Sarah). He's a thoroughly nice and affectionate fellow, and he's good with his hands. What's not to like? Amanda is (at certain points) a very talented ballet dancer, hailing from a different background than many of the inhabitants of that world. She's both shrewd and wise, with a talent for accepting people as they are. In her latter years, she looks like my maternal grandmother, of whom I have warm memories.

When you start a new book, do you know what the entire cast will be?

Some day I may work out my whole plot and all my characters ahead of time, but so far, I start with a situation, some scenes, and a few key characters, and then let the story lead me.

Are any of your characters inspired by real people? 
Eleanor, the central character in Wander Home, has some resemblance to my late brother. He was a troubled soul who caused a fair amount of heartache to those close to him but was fundamentally a good and decent person and deeply creative. One could say the same of Eleanor – although the reasons for her problems and life choices are unrelated to my brother's lifelong mental health issues.

Tell us about your favorite scene in the book.
I'm not good at choosing a favorite anything -- but I'm quite fond of the very first scene, and of the very last scene. Other contenders include Eleanor's introduction to the surprising features of the afterlife, and her reunion with Cassidy (the portion that takes place in Grandma/Amanda's kitchen.)

How do you handle criticism of your work?
I remind myself that there are other readers who love my work, sometimes more than it deserves. I acknowledge any areas where I agree, at least in part, with the criticism. If the reader doing the criticizing appears to have misunderstood some aspect of the book, i.e. on what planet it takes place, (this actually happened with Twin-Bred) I examine whether there is some deficiency in the book that made that misunderstanding more likely. Finally, I look for any grammatical or logical flaws in the criticism that allow me to feel superior to the critic. (I'm only human!)


I love that! Tell us one weird thing, one nice thing, and one fact about where you live.
Weird: it isn't anywhere. That is, we're not in any municipality -- only in a county.
Nice: we're in the woods, and it's beautiful much of the year.
One fact: Indiana University basketball is coming BACK! (Yes, it's a fact! . . .)

It certainly is. They’re currently number one. And I’d like to point out that the University of Louisville and the University of Kentucky are numbers two and three! Go CATS! Okay…if you could take a trip anywhere in the world, where would you go? (Don’t worry about the money. Your publisher is paying. )
I would go to Venice during Carnavale. I visited Venice once for two days, many years ago, and felt as if I'd been there much longer. I found it not only beautiful, but soothing, at a time when I needed some emotional healing.

What are you working on now?
I'm in the middle of editing the sequel to Twin-Bred, tentatively titled Reach (or, more completely, Reach: A Twin-Bred Novel). I also plan to format Wander Home for paperback publication via CreateSpace.

And then there's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)! I’m hoping to finish the VERY rough draft of my latest novel.

I hope you’ll come back and talk about it here when you publish it. Thanks for being here today. 

Thanks, Amy!
                                              

About the author:
Karen A. Wyle was born a Connecticut Yankee, but moved every few years 
throughout her childhood and adolescence.  After college in California, law
 school in Massachusetts, and a mercifully short stint in a large San
 Francisco law firm, she moved to Los Angeles, where she met her now-husband,
who hates L.A. They eventually settled in Bloomington, Indiana, home of
 Indiana University. 

Wyle's childhood ambition was to be the youngest ever published novelist.
 While writing her first novel at age ten, she was mortified to learn that 
some British upstart had beaten her to the goal at age nine. 

Wyle has been a voracious and compulsive reader as long as she can remember.
 Do not strand this woman on a plane without reading matter! Wyle was an
 English and American Literature major at Stanford University, which suited
 her, although she has in recent years developed some doubts about whether
 studying literature is, for most people, a good preparation for enjoying it. 
Her most useful preparation for writing novels, besides reading them, has
 been the practice of appellate law -- in other words, writing large
 quantities of persuasive prose, on deadline, year after year. 

Karen's website

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