Wild Girls: A Novel

Wild Girls: A Novel

Wild Girls: A Novel

Wild Girls: A Novel


Three college friends from the 50s blaze their own path in love and work, braving the stifling conventions of the age, and anticipating the social thaw that would arrive ten years later. These "wild girls" pay heavy penalties for living against the grain, but, over the years, rebound and re-set their course, drawing strength from their friendship. The novel follows them from an elite northeastern college, to Paris with Allen Ginsberg, to New York's avant-garde scene in the early sixties, to a mansion in Newport, to the slopes of Zermatt, to Long Island's Gold Coast, as it celebrates the nimbleness and vitality of women who defied an entire culture to forge their own journey.

" Wild Girls is a novel about a few women rebels who came of age in the 50s with the Beats in Paris, Allen Ginsberg (when he was still sleeping with girls), and a Yoko Ono-based character in early 60s New York. More importantly, Erica Abeel IS a 'Wild Girl'--she lived the life, these are her friends, and this is an insider's peek into that world."--Kevin Kwan, author of Crazy Rich Asians

Praise for Abeel's Women Like Us:

"Smart, snappy, and compulsively readable... Written with wit and perception." --Publishers Weekly

"An old-fashioned good read." --New York Times Book Review


“But I was in search of love in those days, and I
went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecog
nized apprehension that here, at last, I should
find that low door in the wall, which …
opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden.”
—Evelyn Waugh

1954, Freshman

“‘Miss EiGerman leaps as though air is her home element.’”

Brett squirmed; unless onstage, she disliked the spotlight, but no stopping Audrey Curtiz, pronounced Cur-teez, reading aloud from the goddamn New York Times. the paper’s dance critic—well, a third stringer—had covered the group concert at the 92 Street Y and singled out “Harmonica Jam,” Brett’s dance to a blues piece for harmonica and washboard. She’d wrested it from herself over solitary weekends in Davenport Theater, the place black except for the bright dance studio in its belly, silent except for her breath and bare feet beating the sprung floor. the rest of the college was off rah-rah-ing the Princeton Tigers or the Yale whoozits, and Davenport felt lonely as hell, but Martha Graham had said, you have a presence that can’t be taught, and the piece . . .

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