Karen: Hi, this is Karen Cushman, the author of "The Midwife's Apprentice." I'm going to tell you a bit about how I came to write the book and then I'll read an excerpt to you.

The title was in my head for a long time "The Midwife's Apprentice." I liked it speaking as it did of birth and learning, but I didn't know what the story was about. The title was all I had. I wrote it on a card, put it in a folder marked "The Midwife's Apprentice," and filed it away for I had no words to accompany it. Would it forever be an empty folder? Would I never know what I wanted to say?

I sat at the computer and stared at the blank page and then one day I saw an image of a homeless child sleeping on a dung heap longing for a name, a full belly, and a place in the world. And the words flowed from my fingers.

The story begins with a girl known simply as "Brat" sleeping in the warmth of a dung heap. Seeing that Brat is willing to work, Jane the village Midwife takes her as apprentice and Brat changes her name to Alice as she grows in confidence and authority. From waif to Midwife's apprentice.

I'll read an excerpt to you.

Beetle went outside in search of the cat she wanted to tell him about her new name. "Alice" she said to the cat, who rubbed and purred against her ankle. "I have a name now, cat, and you must also so I can call you to breakfast on cold foggy mornings. I will say some names and you tell me when I have found the right one."

Beetle sat on the dusty ground legs crossed. The cat sat and stared at her. "Willow?" She asked. "Purslane? Gypsy Moth? Lentil?" The cat just stared. Beetle stood and walked toward the river, one hand across her belly the other stuck in her mouth. Beetle was thinking. "Bryony? Millstone? Fleecy?"

"Gone completely daft, have you Beetle?" Said the miller as he passed.

"Alice" said Beetle.

"Alice who? Who Alice?"

"I am Alice" Beetle said. "Not Brat. Not Dung Beetle. Not Beetle. Alice."

"Bah" said the miller. "May as well call a rock Alice or a sheep. Alice? Bah."

"Earth Pine?" continued Beetle to the cat. "Dartmoor? Cheesmaker? Holly? Pork?"

"Who you callin' Pork you whiffle brained dung beetle!" This from the blacksmith's lardy daughter, Grommet.

"The cat." Beetle said "and I am Alice."

"You are a nitwit." Grommet Smith replied and laughed as she waddled away.

Beetle sighed. This business of having a name was harder than it seemed. A name was of little use if no one would call you by it. The cat wound himself around Beetle's ankle and purred. "Columbine? Cuttlefish?"

"Purr." The cat responded.

"Clotweed? Shrovetide? Wimble?"

"Purr." The cat responded.

"Horsera-"

"Purr." The cat demanded.

"Purr?" Beetle asked.

"Purr." The cat responded and that was that.