How much of your story is true?
This is the question I am asked most often. And the most honest answer I can come up with is, I don't know. There are pieces of it I can point to that are absolutely, factually pulled directly from my life. They tend to be the more unbelievable ones. For instance, I do have a son who withdrew for a long time and the first story ever to reach him was Mrs. Doubtfire. At the age of nine or so, my son saw this movie and suddenly he was able to follow a plotline, empathize with characters, and appreciate humor. I feel an overwhelming gratitude to Robin Williams and Chris Columbus—men I have never met. Also, everything I own was once stolen by an Israeli sect of Miami's organized crime. And for 14 years, I was married to a man who could heal with his touch. But these purely autobiographical notes are small in numbers: there are, perhaps, five or six of them in my book.

The rest is fiction. . .in some cases based upon a grain of reality, but then imagined, embellished, distorted, reshaped, or entirely changed. The characters in Wild Ride are their own, people who began living in my head and eventually took charge, telling me how their stories would progress and end. In an attempt to cure their son, Rachel and Jack take drastic steps I never would. But I understand why they do what they do. It is my own experience, as a mother desperate to help a child who was suffering, that allowed me to imagine parents who would go to such extraordinary lengths.

This book is a braided narrative, telling two parallel stories in two different eras. Why did you choose to do this?

This is something I had to examine myself, over and over, as I was writing. The stories always seemed connected to me: one about a young woman in the 1990s using modern and very nontraditional means to reach her autistic son and save her marriage; the other about a couple in the middle of the 20th century, dealing with the death of one child and the sudden withdrawal of another, relying on faith and a conservative belief in one another. I wanted to show that repeated ritual of childrearing—that fierce love that every generation feels for the next. The fact that each of us does what seems logical and best given what we know, but the end result is very much the same for all of us. We cling and scrabble and fight to save our kids.

When my manuscript reached Scribner, my editor there very rightly questioned the inclusion of both stories. We actually went through a period where we tried separating them, creating two different books. In the end, Sarah agreed with me that they belonged together. But she also did some very deft editing to help me merge the storylines. I'm very glad we were able to retain both stories, because I think each enriches the other. I like the sense of that ongoing question, What is the right thing?, that never really gets answered. And I also believe, deeply, that each of us does the best we can in the time we have. That's what I wanted to show.

Where does the title come from?

There is a scene in my book, near the beginning of the first historical section, where a young boy remembers how his older brother used to come home from school and lift him up high, then set him on the countertop and make them both a snack. It's a tiny little thing, just a sentence or two; but later, after the older brother has died, the little boy realizes that this means he will have "no more wild rides up the cupboards."

I wrote this sentence without giving it any particular attention. But when my brilliant agent read the novel, prior to sending it out to publishers, he latched onto this line and asked if I would consider re-titling the book. It was one of those situations—and I've had many at this point—where someone else was better able to analyze and explain my story than I was. Rupert pointed out that I had (unwittingly) carried the metaphor of dizzyingly high cabinets and the warmth of a family kitchen through the book. He also told me that my book was about the danger of loving too much, that "wild ride" every parent embarks upon when he or she has a child.

Are there any characters or scenes you particularly love?

I have to admit, I'm awfully partial to Nora, Bo, and the stranger with the cigar. I think it's because these characters simply appeared in my mind whole and completely developed, like messengers sent to show me the next step in my story. They are based on no one I know, and each came at a point in the writing where I had absolutely no idea what would happen next.

As for scenes, I developed an unnatural longing for Korea while I was writing the wartime portion of Wild Ride. I have never been to Korea. And I'm ashamed to say I knew very little about the Korean War before I began my research for this book. But the more I read about the country and the people, the barren landscape and cold Siberian wind, the more I wanted to go there. That's actually one of my goals: when the day comes that I am free and able to afford the trip, I want to go to Korea.

Of course as anyone knows who has read my book, I'm hopelessly in love with Jack. And always will be.

ABOUT WRITING

Do you have a writing routine or schedule?

I do. I've heard there are writers who can sit down and crank out wonderful stories on a whim, awaiting their muse, ready at any moment to be inspired. I'm not one of them. And, for that matter, I don't know anyone like that, either.

The writers I know—myself included—treat it like a job. We set parameters, based upon time spent at the computer or page counts. One of my friends writes two pages every day of the week. No matter how long it takes her, she sits at her computer until she is done. And once she's reached the bottom of the second page, no matter where she is in the story, she shuts down her computer and leaves. That's the contract she's made with herself.

My way is a little different. I am not a morning person, but I am a morning writer. I find I do my best work when the events of the day aren't swimming around in my head: no thoughts of "We're out of butter," or "I wonder if I offended Amy with that comment about her hair." I TRY to stay offline and away from e-mail while I am writing. And, as a believer in behaviorism and the power of conditioning, I keep my routine as consistent as possible. For years, I would leave my house in order to escape the chaos of teenagers and laundry and phones ringing. But I went to the same coffeehouse every day and sat in roughly the same place (I know I've been guilty of being like the character Norm, from Cheers, and looking forlornly at the intruders who were sitting at my table). I would order my coffee—Americano, three shots of espresso, dash of cinnamon—then open my laptop and begin. For me, a time frame seemed to work best. I would put in an hour and a half each morning before work, two hours if I was on a roll. Then, for the rest of the day, the scenes I'd written would bubble around in my head and new things would happen—things I would write the following morning.

What do you think of writing programs?

I attended one, and it was truly a spectacular experience. I learned so much—about writing, about story, about revision. I happened to work with a woman, a truly great essayist, named Patricia Foster who was generous and funny and smart and who made me feel powerful when I wrote. That was a real gift.

But my situation was unique. I had three children and more than anything, entering an MFA program gave me time to write. It programmed me to believe that writing IS a job (not a guilty pleasure) and that time spent reading is an essential part of the process. I met interesting people from all over the world and spent three blissful years immersed in literature and language and words. In addition, it gave me the opportunity to teach. And nothing in my life, other than parenting, has felt so right and rewarding as helping younger people find the voice to tell about their own experiences.

That said, I don't think there is any magic about the MFA and you certainly can become a writer without every stepping inside a classroom. (In fact, I watched many of my fellow students seize up the moment they entered the program and fail to write another word!) If you are wiling to carve out the time to write, treat it seriously, surround yourself with brave, articulate, literary people, and read great work, you will have done everything for yourself that a writing program would do for you.

Who are your favorite writers?

The answer, tired but true, is that there are too many to name. I happen to live in a community of great writers, and there is no end to the generosity that I've found here, in the Twin Cities, among people whose work dazzles me. Garrison Keillor, first. An extraordinary talent in 50 different ways: he is a performer, a singer, a screenwriter, an activist, and a novelist. He has been kinder and more supportive than I ever could have imagined. Also Kate DiCamillo, a good friend whose children's literature is simply stunning. Louise Erdrich, Faith Sullivan, Pete Hautman. This is an amazing place. . .

Then, there are certain writers whom I just adore—I mean every single thing they produce. They are storytellers who speak to me on some sort of instinctual level, making my own world disappear. I open the pages of their books and I live there, happily. Frederick Busch, whose novel Girls is one of my all-time favorites. Sue Miller, Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Ann Patchett, Jane Hamilton, Ian McEwan. Like everyone else in America, I was blown away by Jeffrey Eugenides Middlesex. I think Jhumpa Lahiri is, perhaps, the best short story writer of our time.

I could go on and on about the classics. Only at this point, it would be mostly for show. The sad fact is there is so much new work coming out that I want to read, I rarely pick up older books these days. But if I had to go back and talk about what formed me—what I read as a child and in college that made me understand the truth of fiction—I would say Hemingway and Faulkner, and those southern writers whose intuitive sense of storytelling mesmerizes me to this day: Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Tennessee Williams, Carson McCullers, and Flannery O'Connor.

ABOUT AUTISM

What sort of advice would you give to the parents of children diagnosed with autism?

This is one of the toughest questions for me. When I realized that publishing this book might bring parents to me, desperate for answers, I was truly humbled. Because, of course, I have no answers—just thoughts and opinions and experience and absolutely endless empathy.

The first thing I would say is that "diagnosed with autism," is the critical phrase. It is a diagnosis, only. Not a sentence or a certainty. It doesn't define the child or his or her future. That was the hardest thing for me to grasp in the early years when my son was four and five years old. Nothing the medical experts say, even the well-meaning ones, determines who your child can become.

It is my belief that children with autistic symptoms also have great gifts, and really important things to offer society. It seems more than coincidental to me that in an increasingly technological world, an increasing number of children are being born with a hard-wired logic and a desire for order and patterns. Sure, they can be rigid. They're also, in many cases, wizards with the sort of data processes that are becoming essential to our everyday lives.

However, I also know the facts. Sometimes children suffer because noises are overwhelming to them, and lights are too bright. They feel everything tenfold and it is awful for any parent to witness this kind of pain. My advice is to ameliorate through any means possible the discomfort your child experiences. To capitalize on his or her strengths, advocate loudly and without reason. And never stop believing.

What is your thought about autism treatments available today?

I am, frankly, leery. When my son was first diagnosed, nearly 12 years ago, the medically-accepted theory was that "hypersensitivity" should be treated with therapeutic brushing. Several times a day, for months, his father and I used surgical scrub brushes to rough up every inch of his skin, from his neck down to his toes. Now, we look back and feel ashamed that we were taken in by this cruel and Draconian approach (which did no good at all, by the way). But it came highly recommended. It was, we were told, the cutting edge in autism treatment.

Since that time, we've been through the "brain allergy" years, the dietary trends, the Lovaas training mania. Each so-called cure came with its die-hard adherents—and a lot of people who stood to make money or a "name" if parents went along. . . I know I sound cynical. But the only thing I've learned is that expert opinions change with the tides. The only person who knows your child is you.

Some very wise person once said to me, "It doesn't matter what you do to help your child, just keep doing it." Through the years, we read poetry to our son. We played music and danced with him, served him ice cream for dinner, and took him to sacred mountaintop spots. We used behavioral therapies, gave him vitamins, eliminated dyes and preservatives from his food, hooked him up to biofeedback machines, and got him involved in chess. He's had tutors, occupational therapists, kinesthetic work, and chiropractic. Did any of it help? Yes. . .no. . .I have no idea. He's who he is supposed to be: stalwart and sweet, ethical, logical, trustworthy and good. He is an extraordinary math student, a natural at foreign language, and an audiophile.

I wish I could remember who said those words to me so many years ago. But it was during a time when I felt as if I were moving through fog—worrying, never sleeping, high on adrenaline and fear. I have no idea now who it was, male or female, parent or teacher. But maybe it doesn't matter. I say it to you now but make no claim over the advice. It doesn't matter what you do, just keep doing it. Go forward, love your child without reason. You are doing exactly the right thing.