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Quote by Iva Lou DeSiata

“It still feels surreal to say this — but The Castle of High Winds will be out in just a few weeks. This story started as a whisper in my mind: a girl, a castle, and a family haunted by secrets and the wind itself. It became something bigger than I expected — a mix of mystery, magic, and emotion that I can’t wait to finally share. To everyone who’s supported me, encouraged me, or simply asked about the book — thank you. Your kindness has meant more than you know. I hope when you read Emily’s journey, you’ll feel a little of the wonder and courage that went into creating it. Release date: Oct 31, 2025 Available on Amazon #TheCastleOfHighWinds #YAfiction #FantasyBooks #IndieAuthor #NewBookRelease”

Quote by Iva Lou DeSiata

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Iva Lou DeSiata

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“I had always believed that the very best food contains something elementally repugnant. That its innate grotesquerie is what makes it so perversely alluring. My own favorite foods tended toward a certain sludgy, muddy texture. And from the most expensive and genteel through to the indulgently crass, the appeal of slop abides: caviar, escargots, foie gras or hamburgers, kebabs, macaroni and cheese. Even vegetable soup forms a membrane. Apples begin rotting from the very first bite. No matter which end of the spectrum, there lies fundamentally and yet delectably disgusting, some squirmy, sinewy, oozing, greasy, sticky, glutinous, mushy, fatty, chewy, viscous thing that compels. The line between pleasure and revulsion can seem so very thin, if it even exists at all.”

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“There was one story that anger certainly lit the fuse of. In the 1960's, in my home town of Jackson, the civil rights leader Medgar Evers was murdered on night in darkness and I wrote a story that same night about the murderer (identity unknown) called "Where Is The Voice Coming From?" But all that absorbed me, though it started as outrage, was the necessity I felt for entering into the mind and inside the skin of a character who could hardly have been more alien or repugnant to me. Trying for my utmost, I wrote in the first person. I was wholly vaunting the prerogative of the short-story writer. It is always vaunting, of course, to imagine yourself inside another person, but it is what a story writer does in every piece of work; it is his first step, and his last too, I suppose. I'm not sure this story was brought off; and I don't believe that my anger showed me anything about human character that my sympathy and rapport never had.”

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“Greta is great, but he's a little...extremely...moody. Take my birthday last year. At the stroke of midnight, he appeared at my door. "I wrote this poem for you," he said, shoving a piece of crumpled paper into my hands. 'The world must burn. Lava exploding into faces. Their skeletons are screaming now. No survivors. - From Greta' "Oh...uh...wow..." I began. "Don't bother thanking me," he said. "I just wanted to comfort you for being one year closer to the grave. Of course, I failed miserably, because comfort doesn't exist in this universe.”

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“I, um, I thought you might want this back.” I pull out the battered old teddy bear and hold it toward him. He frowns and shakes his head and doesn’t reach for it, and I feel like he’s punched me in the gut. Then my baby brother slaps that damned bear out of my hand and crushes his face against my chest, and beneath the odors of sweat and strong soap I can smell it, his smell, Sammy’s, my brother’s.”

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