Genre Fiction
![Delia Owens - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_delia_owens.jpg)
Where the Crawdads Sing (Movie Tie-In)
NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE
The #1 New York Times bestselling worldwide sensation with more than 12 million copies sold, "a painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature" (The New York Times Book Review).
For years, rumors of the "Marsh Girl" have haunted Barkley Cove, a quiet town on the North Carolina coast. So in late 1969, when handsome Chase Andrews is found dead, the locals immediately suspect Kya Clark, the so-called Marsh Girl. But Kya is not what they say. Sensitive and intelligent, she has survived for years alone in the marsh that she calls home, finding friends in the gulls and lessons in the sand. Then the time comes when she yearns to be touched and loved. When two young men from town become intrigued by her wild beauty, Kya opens herself to a new life-until the unthinkable happens.
Where the Crawdads Sing is at once an exquisite ode to the natural world, a heartbreaking coming-of-age story, and a surprising tale of possible murder. Delia Owens reminds us that we are forever shaped by the children we once were, and that we are all subject to the beautiful and violent secrets that nature keeps.
The #1 New York Times bestselling worldwide sensation with more than 12 million copies sold, "a painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature" (The New York Times Book Review).
For years, rumors of the "Marsh Girl" have haunted Barkley Cove, a quiet town on the North Carolina coast. So in late 1969, when handsome Chase Andrews is found dead, the locals immediately suspect Kya Clark, the so-called Marsh Girl. But Kya is not what they say. Sensitive and intelligent, she has survived for years alone in the marsh that she calls home, finding friends in the gulls and lessons in the sand. Then the time comes when she yearns to be touched and loved. When two young men from town become intrigued by her wild beauty, Kya opens herself to a new life-until the unthinkable happens.
Where the Crawdads Sing is at once an exquisite ode to the natural world, a heartbreaking coming-of-age story, and a surprising tale of possible murder. Delia Owens reminds us that we are forever shaped by the children we once were, and that we are all subject to the beautiful and violent secrets that nature keeps.
Editorial Reviews
"A painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature....Owens here surveys the desolate marshlands of the North Carolina coast through the eyes of an abandoned child. And in her isolation that child makes us open our own eyes to the secret wonders-and dangers-of her private world."-The New York Times Book Review
"Steeped in the rhythms and shadows of the coastal marshes of North Carolina's Outer Banks, this fierce and hauntingly beautiful novel centers on...Kya's heartbreaking story of learning to trust human connections, intertwine[d] with a gripping murder mystery, revealing savage truths. An astonishing debut."-People
"This lush mystery is perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver."-Bustle
"A lush debut novel, Owens delivers her mystery wrapped in gorgeous, lyrical prose. It's clear she's from this place-the land of the southern coasts, but also the emotional terrain-you can feel it in the pages. A magnificent achievement, ambitious, credible and very timely."-Alexandra Fuller, New York Times bestselling author of Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight
"Heart-wrenching...A fresh exploration of isolation and nature from a female perspective along with a compelling love story."-Entertainment Weekly
"This wonderful novel has a bit of everything-mystery, romance, and fascinating characters, all told in a story that takes place in North Carolina."-Nicholas Sparks, New York Times bestselling author of Every Breath
"Delia Owen's gorgeous novel is both a coming-of-age tale and an engrossing whodunit."-Real Simple
"Evocative...Kya makes for an unforgettable heroine."-Publishers Weekly
"The New Southern novel...A lyrical debut."-Southern Living
"A nature-infused romance with a killer twist."-Refinery29
"Anyone who liked The Great Alone will want to read Where the Crawdads Sing....This astonishing debut is a beautiful and haunting novel that packs a powerful punch. It's the first novel in a long time that made me cry."-Kristin Hann...
"Steeped in the rhythms and shadows of the coastal marshes of North Carolina's Outer Banks, this fierce and hauntingly beautiful novel centers on...Kya's heartbreaking story of learning to trust human connections, intertwine[d] with a gripping murder mystery, revealing savage truths. An astonishing debut."-People
"This lush mystery is perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver."-Bustle
"A lush debut novel, Owens delivers her mystery wrapped in gorgeous, lyrical prose. It's clear she's from this place-the land of the southern coasts, but also the emotional terrain-you can feel it in the pages. A magnificent achievement, ambitious, credible and very timely."-Alexandra Fuller, New York Times bestselling author of Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight
"Heart-wrenching...A fresh exploration of isolation and nature from a female perspective along with a compelling love story."-Entertainment Weekly
"This wonderful novel has a bit of everything-mystery, romance, and fascinating characters, all told in a story that takes place in North Carolina."-Nicholas Sparks, New York Times bestselling author of Every Breath
"Delia Owen's gorgeous novel is both a coming-of-age tale and an engrossing whodunit."-Real Simple
"Evocative...Kya makes for an unforgettable heroine."-Publishers Weekly
"The New Southern novel...A lyrical debut."-Southern Living
"A nature-infused romance with a killer twist."-Refinery29
"Anyone who liked The Great Alone will want to read Where the Crawdads Sing....This astonishing debut is a beautiful and haunting novel that packs a powerful punch. It's the first novel in a long time that made me cry."-Kristin Hann...
Readers Top Reviews
stoaty1
A tale of a poor, uneducated yet strangely beautiful girl who grows up alone in a swamp while writing poetry and studying quantum physics.
GothicElizacho
As a native North Carolinian, this book griped me on a number of levels. First off, the drawl is insulting. We don’t talk like that. Even the uneducated hicks don’t. If her parents were well to do, they wouldn’t revert to backwoods mush mouth because of where they lived. Second, NO ONE from the coast goes to Asheville like it’s a normal thing. I live in the middle of the state. Asheville is 3-4 hours west of me. The outer banks are 5is hours from me. Driving from the coast to Asheville is an 8+ hour trip!! They’d go to Wilmington, Greenville, Rocky Mount, Raleigh. The concept of a 7 year old surviving on her own is far fetched enough, she never gets sick or hurt, can cook and clean up after herself, the shack never needs repairing, etc. But more importantly, HURRICANES!! NC gets hurricanes! Hurricane Hazel hit NC in 1954, and was completely left out of the book. Came right in off the coast, like most hurricanes do. The shack would have been destroyed. Three: the swampy parts of NC aren’t on the coast. There much more inland. You get to swamp about 100 miles before the coast and swamp doesn’t peter out to the ocean. There are pumas, cottonmouths, poisonous spiders, alligators, bears in that part of the state, but she makes it fine. Wrong geography, predictable, unbelievable story. Don’t waste your time.
LouDon Meyers
I was sure I would like this book..and actually finished it. I grew more irritated with each page by the last half. I grew up in coastal North Carolina and was born in the 40s, so would be the same age as the main characters. It was clear that the author did not do her research about the area and about what would be plausible at the time of the story. When she mentioned real towns, she should have known Asheville would not be the destination city from the coast, especially in the 60s. Ma's old cardboard suitcase that had been in the closet in the marsh for 19 years would be covered in mildew, Fireflies would have been called lightening bugs. No boy in a small town in NC would have been named either Tate or Chase in 40s, more recent popular names. I could go on and on. The inconsistencies in the dialect was grating, and many parts of the story were just not believable to me. I am amazed that so many people loved the book and the poetry.
Louanne M. Machac
Started reading it 10am and finished 8pm! Could not put it down. Main characters are easy to get to know (so you think) and the story draws you in from the start! I look forward to more from this author!! Read this Book!
Short Excerpt Teaser
1.
Ma
1952
The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh's moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron's wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from the pot and lowered it into the basin of worn-out suds. No sounds now but her own breathing. Who had left the shack? Not Ma. She never let the door slam.
But when Kya ran to the porch, she saw her mother in a long brown skirt, kick pleats nipping at her ankles, as she walked down the sandy lane in high heels. The stubby-nosed shoes were fake alligator skin. Her only going-out pair. Kya wanted to holler out but knew not to rouse Pa, so opened the door and stood on the brick-'n'-board steps. From there she saw the blue train case Ma carried. Usually, with the confidence of a pup, Kya knew her mother would return with meat wrapped in greasy brown paper or with a chicken, head dangling down. But she never wore the gator heels, never took a case.
Ma always looked back where the foot lane met the road, one arm held high, white palm waving, as she turned onto the track, which wove through bog forests, cattail lagoons, and maybe-if the tide obliged-eventually into town. But today she walked on, unsteady in the ruts. Her tall figure emerged now and then through the holes of the forest until only swatches of white scarf flashed between the leaves. Kya sprinted to the spot she knew would bare the road; surely Ma would wave from there, but she arrived only in time to glimpse the blue case-the color so wrong for the woods-as it disappeared. A heaviness, thick as black-cotton mud, pushed her chest as she returned to the steps to wait.
Kya was the youngest of five, the others much older, though later she couldn't recall their ages. They lived with Ma and Pa, squeezed together like penned rabbits, in the rough-cut shack, its screened porch staring big-eyed from under the oaks.
Jodie, the brother closest to Kya, but still seven years older, stepped from the house and stood behind her. He had her same dark eyes and black hair; had taught her birdsongs, star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass.
"Ma'll be back," he said.
"I dunno. She's wearin' her gator shoes."
"A ma don't leave her kids. It ain't in 'em."
"You told me that fox left her babies."
"Yeah, but that vixen got 'er leg all tore up. She'd've starved to death if she'd tried to feed herself 'n' her kits. She was better off to leave 'em, heal herself up, then whelp more when she could raise 'em good. Ma ain't starvin', she'll be back." Jodie wasn't nearly as sure as he sounded, but said it for Kya.
Her throat tight, she whispered, "But Ma's carryin' that blue case like she's goin' somewheres big."
The shack sat back from the palmettos, which sprawled across sand flats to a necklace of green lagoons and, in the distance, all the marsh beyond. Miles of blade-grass so tough it grew in salt water, interrupted only by trees so bent they wore the shape of the wind. Oak forests bunched around the other sides of the shack and sheltered the closest lagoon, its surface so rich in life it churned. Salt air and gull-song drifted through the trees from the sea.
Claiming territory hadn't changed much since the 1500s. The scattered marsh holdings weren't legally described, just staked out natural-a creek boundary here, a dead oak there-by renegades. A man doesn't set up a palmetto lean-to in a bog unless he's on the run from somebody or at the end of his own road.
The marsh was guarded by a torn shoreline, labeled by early explorers as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic" because riptides, furious winds, and shallow shoals wrecked ships like paper hats along what would become the North Carolina coast. One seaman's journal read, "rang'd along the Shoar . . . but could discern no Entrance . . . A violent Storm overtook us . . . we were forced to get off to Sea, to secure Ourselves and Ship, and were driven by the Rapidity of a strong Current . . .
"The Land . . . being marshy and Swamps, we return'd towards our Ship . . . Discouragement of all such as should hereafter come into those Parts to settle."
Those looking for serious land moved on, and this infamous marsh became a net, scooping up a mishmash of mutinous sailors, castaways, debtors, and fugitives dodging wars, taxes, or laws that they didn't take to. The ones malaria didn't kill or the swamp didn't swallow bred into a woodsmen tribe of several races and multiple cultures, each of whom c...
Ma
1952
The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh's moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron's wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from the pot and lowered it into the basin of worn-out suds. No sounds now but her own breathing. Who had left the shack? Not Ma. She never let the door slam.
But when Kya ran to the porch, she saw her mother in a long brown skirt, kick pleats nipping at her ankles, as she walked down the sandy lane in high heels. The stubby-nosed shoes were fake alligator skin. Her only going-out pair. Kya wanted to holler out but knew not to rouse Pa, so opened the door and stood on the brick-'n'-board steps. From there she saw the blue train case Ma carried. Usually, with the confidence of a pup, Kya knew her mother would return with meat wrapped in greasy brown paper or with a chicken, head dangling down. But she never wore the gator heels, never took a case.
Ma always looked back where the foot lane met the road, one arm held high, white palm waving, as she turned onto the track, which wove through bog forests, cattail lagoons, and maybe-if the tide obliged-eventually into town. But today she walked on, unsteady in the ruts. Her tall figure emerged now and then through the holes of the forest until only swatches of white scarf flashed between the leaves. Kya sprinted to the spot she knew would bare the road; surely Ma would wave from there, but she arrived only in time to glimpse the blue case-the color so wrong for the woods-as it disappeared. A heaviness, thick as black-cotton mud, pushed her chest as she returned to the steps to wait.
Kya was the youngest of five, the others much older, though later she couldn't recall their ages. They lived with Ma and Pa, squeezed together like penned rabbits, in the rough-cut shack, its screened porch staring big-eyed from under the oaks.
Jodie, the brother closest to Kya, but still seven years older, stepped from the house and stood behind her. He had her same dark eyes and black hair; had taught her birdsongs, star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass.
"Ma'll be back," he said.
"I dunno. She's wearin' her gator shoes."
"A ma don't leave her kids. It ain't in 'em."
"You told me that fox left her babies."
"Yeah, but that vixen got 'er leg all tore up. She'd've starved to death if she'd tried to feed herself 'n' her kits. She was better off to leave 'em, heal herself up, then whelp more when she could raise 'em good. Ma ain't starvin', she'll be back." Jodie wasn't nearly as sure as he sounded, but said it for Kya.
Her throat tight, she whispered, "But Ma's carryin' that blue case like she's goin' somewheres big."
The shack sat back from the palmettos, which sprawled across sand flats to a necklace of green lagoons and, in the distance, all the marsh beyond. Miles of blade-grass so tough it grew in salt water, interrupted only by trees so bent they wore the shape of the wind. Oak forests bunched around the other sides of the shack and sheltered the closest lagoon, its surface so rich in life it churned. Salt air and gull-song drifted through the trees from the sea.
Claiming territory hadn't changed much since the 1500s. The scattered marsh holdings weren't legally described, just staked out natural-a creek boundary here, a dead oak there-by renegades. A man doesn't set up a palmetto lean-to in a bog unless he's on the run from somebody or at the end of his own road.
The marsh was guarded by a torn shoreline, labeled by early explorers as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic" because riptides, furious winds, and shallow shoals wrecked ships like paper hats along what would become the North Carolina coast. One seaman's journal read, "rang'd along the Shoar . . . but could discern no Entrance . . . A violent Storm overtook us . . . we were forced to get off to Sea, to secure Ourselves and Ship, and were driven by the Rapidity of a strong Current . . .
"The Land . . . being marshy and Swamps, we return'd towards our Ship . . . Discouragement of all such as should hereafter come into those Parts to settle."
Those looking for serious land moved on, and this infamous marsh became a net, scooping up a mishmash of mutinous sailors, castaways, debtors, and fugitives dodging wars, taxes, or laws that they didn't take to. The ones malaria didn't kill or the swamp didn't swallow bred into a woodsmen tribe of several races and multiple cultures, each of whom c...
