Marilu Norden

The true story behind my award-winning first novel UNBRIDLED: A TALE OF A DIVORCE RANCH was featured in an August 28, 2013, article called, “Divorcing at Dude Ranches,” published in the Huffington Post! Read the article HERE. I found the comments “interesting,” to say the least! (scroll down about nine inches below the article to find the comments)

Written by Theresa Iker, the article is based on a recent interview she did with me about my experiences at a divorce ranch in Reno, Nevada, way back in 1951. The interview was part of Iker’s research for her Scripps College thesis on the American divorce ranches phenomenon, circa 1930s to 1960s. AOL picked up the article and it went viral internationally!

The circa 1951 letterhead from Pyramid Lake Ranch—30 miles north of Reno, Nevada—the "Desert Lake Ranch" setting of my semi-autobiographical novel, "Unbridled: A Tale of a Divorce Ranch." (click on the image to see a high-resolution version of the historic letterhead)

Marilu Norden, circa 1952, about a year after the divorce ranch experience

A 20-minute interview with Marilu for “The Story”—a nationally syndicated radio program hosted by Dick Gordon out of WUNC Chapel Hill, North Carolina—aired Tuesday, February 22, 2011. To listen, click HERE.

Marilu can be heard talking about her experiences in the 1950s at the Pyramid Lake Ranch divorce ranch outside of Reno, Nevada, that was the subject of her award-winning novel, Unbridled: A Tale of a Divorce Ranch.

Here’s a photo of Marilu during the interview:

Marilu Norden Being Interviewed by Dick Gordon for "The Story

The Dec09/Jan10 issue of BUST Magazine article, “The Six-Week Cure,” written by Priya Jain, features an interview with Marilu and information about UNBRIDLED: A TALE OF A DIVORCE RANCH!

High up a winding road in the hills of Hollywood on a summer day in 1956, I drove my little gray ‘49 Pontiac, trying to ignore the tannish ribbon of smog obscuring the view of the city spread out below me. Finding the address I’d been given, I parked, then mounted steep stone steps to the wood-carved front door of a white stucco, Spanish-style house. I rang the bell and was greeted by a slim, blonde man who smilingly beckoned me to follow him down a few Mexican-tiled steps into a sunken sala, heavy with oriental rugs and wrought-iron and leather furniture.

“Hi. I’m Leighton,” said the man. “Have trouble finding the place? Brando likes his privacy so the place is somewhat hidden.”

Brando!? “Oh, no. Thank you.” I stood, smiling nervously, my portfolio of music held tightly to my chest. “My agent gave me good directions.”

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