The Creative Writing Toolbox: Interview with Bethany Wiggins

In which I answer questions like:

Have you ever fallen asleep while writing?

And . . .

Do you really believe in Skinwalkers? (Doesn't everyone?)

The Creative Writing Toolbox: Interview with Bethany Wiggins

Shifting on Facebook

In some things, I am a SLACKER. Like blogging about the fact that Shifting has a facebook page.

It does. Now you know.

So, if you liked the book, check it out!

On another note, we are almost at the seven months to release of my newest book, STUNG! Be looking for a sneak peak of it on here in the next few days!

The Real Me

I have been asked a few questions as an "official" writer lately. People want to know more about the REAL me (which is the only me). Here are the answers.

Where did you grow up?
Denver, CO.
SLC, UT.
Silver City, NM.
SLC, UT.
Croton-On-Hudson, NY.
SLC, UT.
Fontanna Resort, NC.
Utah.

What did your parents do?
My dad was/is a worldwide renowned oil exploration geologist. My mother was a school teacher--but she taught school after I was an adult.

Did you always want to be a writer?
Nope. I had no aspirations to be a writer when I was a kid, or even a young adult. I often dreamed of being a writer, but never actually did anything to become one until I was in my late twenties. And then I just decided to start writing books (with a little push from my sister). BUT on that note, I always LOVED storytelling. I had ghost-story-telling parties at Halloween. When we visited family, I always asked for stories about my parents when they were kids. I have always sought out stories.

Have you always had a huge imagination?
Yes. In fact, my imagination was so big as a teenager that I was dubbed "odd." I liked strange things--like antique-looking jewelry that everyone else thought was ugly. I read big fantasy novels. I watched shows like Star Trek and Legend.

And . . . I won't bore you any longer! But if you want to ask me something else, post it in the comments and I will do another blog post.

Auction With Agent Critiques and HOBBIT Movie Loot!

I just found out about this auction. It is for a REALLY good cause! And it has some amazing prizes, like:

Agent and author critiques.

Signed books.

Jewelry.

Original art.

Customized portraits.

And . . . a special little something from the new HOBBIT movie!


Go on. Check it out. It starts at 4 a.m. EST. It's easy to spend money for a good cause. :)

Corndogs and Stung

Wow. So, I actually have more than five seconds to sit down at my computer, which has not happened for a long time! (If you don't believe me, ask my facebook friends. I'm not even on there much lately.)

So, here's what's new with me. I got a kitten! She looks like a black and white cotton ball with legs and a tail. I am running again. Nothing huge. Just two miles, three days a week (which is HUGE for me). STUNG is going to the typesetter! (All right, in all fairness, it has probably already gone there. I just haven't blogged about it in a while.) STUNG 2 is almost finished (as in written and ready for editing--so not really almost finished, more like almost begun). I love corndogs. Yes, that sounds like an odd "new" thing, but I hadn't had them since elementary school lunch! My husband brought a box of them home from the grocery store a few weeks ago(he does all the grocery shopping, bless him!)and my corndog love was rekindled. :) And that's all for now. I can't wait to share STUNG with you guys. I almost get weepy just thinking about it. If you want to sign up to read it on goodreads, click HERE. Enjoy your summer vacation!!! Unless of course you live in Australia. XOXO, Bethany

True Confessions of a YA Writer Part Two

My seventh grade English teacher (we'll call her Mrs. B.) probably ate a cup of staples for breakfast every day. That would explain the constant look of misery etched into her manly face. She also wore men's clothes, had pictures of tigers all over her classroom, and was so quick to drop punishments that no one dared talk in her class. She also had strong beliefs about cheating, which copying someone else's homework fit into.

I couldn't help the fact that as a kid I was terrified of punishment. My dad was pretty quick to crack the whip--if I so much as accidentally bumped his glasses, all H-E-double-hockey-sticks broke loose. My mom's favorite kitchen accessory? The small wooden cutting board with a handle--aptly renamed The Paddle-board*.

So, the day when Mrs. B. stood in front of the class and stared us down with her staple-sharp glare, I sank low in my chair and started to sweat. "It has been brought to my attention that some of you have been cheating on your homework," she said, gaze sweeping over the classroom. "I know who you are. All of you!"

I could hardly breathe. Just that morning I had copied ONE answer from my best friend's assignment. ONE ANSWER!

"Raise your hand if you're guilty of cheating!" No one did. The whole class was dead silent. Mrs. B. tightened her glare, making one of her eyes go all squinty. And then, one by one, hands started going up until everyone in that room except me, a boy with no friends, and a girl with no friends, had their hands held limply up over their heads.

My two best friends, sitting on either side of me, turned and glared at me. "Raise your hand!" one of them hissed. I clasped my sweaty hands in my lap and stared at Mrs. B., too terrified to even move.

Mrs. B. crossed her arms over her flannel men's shirt and nodded. "I thought so. You're all a bunch of cheaters. The students with their hands up will take the final exam with no notes!"

That whole class period I wanted to barf. Every time my best friends looked at me, glared at me, I felt the bile rise a little higher up my throat. After class they approached me. "You are such a liar," one said. "If you don't tell Mrs. B. that you cheated too, we're never going to talk to you again."

I sat alone at lunch that day.

The next day my two best friends ignored me when I walked into class. Instead of going to my seat I dragged my feet up to Mrs. B's desk, hugged my books to my chest, and blurted, "I cheated! I'm a cheater!"

She studied me over a pair of manly reading glasses. "Your friends put you up to this didn't they? You're too nice of a girl to cheat."

I shook my head. "I cheated," I said again--which was the sad truth, even if I was a nice girl.

Mrs. B. shrugged. "Fine. You take the test with no notes like everybody else."

With the whole class staring at me, I made my way to my desk and looked at my friends for approval. They both turned their backs to me. When I talked to them, they played deaf. When the dismissal bell rang, they put their noses in the air and walked out of the room before I had my books in my bag.

The boy on my left, the boy who didn't cheat, looked at me and said, "It's kinda hard to cheat when you don't have any friends." I figured that one out for myself.

If you want to read more about my turbulent teen years, go here.

*Author's note: My mom rarely used The Paddle-board, mainly because I hid it every time I found it (and she'll probably read this). Best hiding place ever? Under the fluffy toilet-seat cover.

True Confessions of a YA Writer Part One

Does anyone really think they're pretty in high school? Okay--I knew a lot of girls who didn't think they were pretty. They KNEW it. But I wasn't one of them. And I didn't know them as in share a bond of friendship with them. I watched them walk down the hall, flipping their hair over their shoulders while applying lip gloss.

So, junior year I thought (hoped?) I was pretty, but judging by the amount of dates I was asked on, I was starting to seriously doubt my own personal allure to the male half of the school. Dates=0. Honestly, boys didn't even really talk to me. And unfortunately my self esteem quotient was a whole lot lower than my intelligence quotient back in those days.

The one ray of sunshine on many of those drab high school days was my cousin Bryce: popular, good-looking, a year older, and one of my best (only) friends. On a particularly bad day, I got up the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing me for some time.

"Am I pretty or not, Bryce?"

His lips thinned, he got an intense look of concentration on his face, and his eyes slowly moved from my face, down to my feet, and back up to my face again. "I don't know. I'm related to you so I never really thought of you as pretty."

Throat constricting. Face burning. Eyeballs trying to water. I forced myself to breath. "Oh. All right." Totally not the answer I was hoping (expecting?) to get. I mean, the least he could have done was lie. (Yes, you're beautiful, dear cousin of mine!)

Still wearing that look of painful concentration, he said, "Hold on," and walked ten feet away to a group of junior guys, leaving me standing alone in the hall. He tapped a guy on the shoulder, said something, and pointed at me. This guy, we'll call him Mr. X, looked at me. His eyes grew wide. He paled. He took a step backward and his mouth puckered up to the size of a grape.

I felt faint. My face started to throb with heat. Whirling around, I ducked my head, stared at the ground, and started walking away as fast as I could, but not before I heard Mr. X's response to what Bryce asked him.

"Oh, Man. Please don't tell me your cousin has a crush on me!"

I avoided Mr. X like the plague for the next year and a half. It wasn't hard. He avoided me too.

I never did get a real answer to my question that day, but I learned a valuable lesson. If you can't handle a bad answer to a question, don't ask the question!