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

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!

Back in the days of vaudeville, Gypsy Rose Lee and her mom found themselves booked into a third rate theater specializing in the dubious art of stripping. This was comically dramatized in the 1962 film version where the young “Gypsy” is introduced to the inner sanctum of stripping by a trio of strippers, each insisting, in her own inimitable way, that to succeed “You Gotta Have A Gimmick.” “Gimmick” is yesterday’s word for today’s all-purpose “hook,” as in: if you want to guarantee stardom on the world stage “You Gotta Have a Hook.” But in vaudeville “hook” meant if you gave a lousy performance somebody from backstage would wield a big, long hook and reel you right off the proscenium. There went your rent money and your reputation in show business. Not so today. Have a great hook and you’re in the running for whatever the media demands.

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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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