Today I welcome Miranda Wheeler, author of Something of a Kind to my blog!!! Glad you came, Miranda!!!
Title: Something Of A
Kind
Author: Miranda Wheeler
Published: Self Published – August 30, 2012
Word Count: 66,000
Genre: YA Contemporary Fiction
Synopsis:
As a 17-year-old artist, Alyson Glass had her future mapped
– she’d go to art school, study in Paris, and eventually make enough bank to
support her single mother. The trouble is, things don’t always go as planned –
especially a sneak attack of stage-four ovarian cancer.
Suddenly motherless and court-ordered to move in with her estranged father, Aly’s
forced to leave behind her New York hometown for the oddities of Alaska.
Ashland seems like cruel and unusual punishment – at least until her dad
ditches her at a local restaurant and she crashes into a super-hot,
guitar-playing diner-boy with a horrific home life.
Noah Locklear is used to waiting – waiting for his shift to end, waiting until
his drunkard parents go to bed, and waiting for the day he can get his sister
away from their dysfunctional family. The summer before senior year, the
elusive researchers that ruthlessly pry into Ashland’s history shatter a final
cord with Noah’s abusive father, one of the town’s elders. Unfortunately, as
far as his parents are concerned, the new girl who’s changing everything
belongs to the outsiders. With their relationship increasingly forbidden, the
struggle of knowing who to trust reveals that nothing is what it seems.
As Aly encourages Noah to investigate the legends he’d always written off as
stories, they uncover the one thing their fathers can agree on: there’s
something in the woods.
About the Author:
A current high school student, 16-year-old author Miranda
Wheeler lives with her loving family in her hometown of Torrington, Connecticut.
An avid reader, she’s been whipping through books and producing novel-length
projects (though none published prior to Something Of A Kind) from the early
age of eleven. Having previously released short stories, some published in
magazines such as TeenInk and others via “indie” mediums, she has many plans of
continuing to write, as well as pursuing other passions and an eventual
teaching career. While the official cover is a work in progress and the title
won’t be released until the promotional media is obtained, several other
projects are in the works: a YA steampunk novella, a YA paranormal romance, and
a YA sci-fi-series, in addition to unofficial talks of a Something Of A Kind
sequel.
GUEST POST:
Three Things
I Learned While Writing Something Of A Kind
A Guest Post
by Miranda Wheeler
It’s easy to say that writing a novel is one of
the most life-changing learning experiences one can go through. Realizations
including everything from how to increase effectiveness to killing darlings to
accepting critique with eagerness to improve to handling failure with grace
were all part of rolling with the punches – and most things were learned the
hard way. Here’s what the wake of some major road blocks left me:
LESSON ONE: The only way to finish anything is
to take up arms against procrastination, gather one’s assets and push it to the
metal. There are a hundred billion reasons to stop for a minute and I’m
convinced there are twice as many ways to convince oneself that the hungry
reflex to itch towards the internet needs more dire attention than a
manuscript. The unfortunate fact is that it doesn’t matter that the sirens’
call of social media is beckoning – because every time you give in, it drags a
little piece of your possibility to its watery death at the raging hands of an
angry Poseidon. Wasted time for the creative mind is poison – and it spreads.
It’ll get easier to look away from the monitor sticky notes and ignore the
pulsating desktop doc shortcut to a manuscript until you don’t much think about
it anymore. Soon after, it’ll be a passing thought in the late night
insomniac’s contemplation of the universe or another scrawl on a growing bucket
list. Writing is hard. Writing hurts. It’s easy to get lost in the broken
promises of Facebook or bad TV. I charge the inspired to fight it – one must
write to be a writer.
LESSON TWO: Writing isn’t a hobby, writing is work – the overwhelming,
burning-the-midnight-oil, fall-asleep-crying, hurts-so-good, somehow totally
rewarding type of work. Difficult is a vast generalization. Utmost passion
doesn’t even come close. Beautiful and evil are understatements. To craft a
manuscript is pouring everything you are into something you’re not and fusing
the two. At times, it’s been the death of me, and in other moments, it’s the
craved epitome of our instant-gratification culture – with more fleeting
satisfaction than the chocolate muffins infamous for religious experiences
fresh from your favorite grandma’s handwritten tri-generational cookbook. It’s
amazing, in all of its horrific frustrations and shortcomings, the fondness
kindled for the life only one can breathe into their story world. I imagine the
feeling is akin only to parenting.
LESSON THREE: To produce, one must let go: turn
off the inner critic, allow oneself to poorly preform, and focus on getting it
out first – the three E’s and two R’s of good writing come later (Editing.
Editing. Editing. Rewrite. REVISION.)The burning desire to be flawless is not
only unquenchable, it’s unrealistic – and a huge roadblock in the creative
flow. There’s a difference between wanting perfection and bullying yourself.
The only way to actually move from “waiting for inspiration” excuses in
writer’s block and actually working towards the last page is forcing oneself to
write, and allowing it to be utter junk. It’s impossible to fix your own
writing enough to satisfy the inner judge, and trying to get other people to
fix you is futile and more than likely ends in passive aggression, disappointment,
crushed dreams, or over-fluffed confidence. A tough lesson I learned (the hard
way, of course, I restate) is not to pass the work around and let everyone
who’s literate offer constructive criticism – half of America has a
half-finished manuscript, and nearly everyone’s a critic who thinks they’re a
literary Picasso. There will be a few really great influences that will offer
enormous help, who will offer brilliant insight, whose points of view are
refreshing and undeniably helpful. It’s extremely important to get feedback
from these respected people, but offering it to just anyone ends up with a
personal “Midnight Sun” fiasco – and that’s unpleasant for many a-reader.
***BONUS***
Exclusive Tour
Excerpt: Something Of A Kind by
Miranda Wheeler
Blogger Info: Pages
#73-8; Word Count 1,417
Day faded from the sky, leaving a periwinkle residue
where the sun dropped below the horizon. As it continued
to darken, a crackling fire was the only light in the forest’s pool of black.
Between the heat radiating from Noah’s side and the close lick of flames, the
night’s unseasonable chill was hardly a menace.
Alyson flinched as a popping knock drew her attention
to the trees. She expected Owen or Luke to come running from the shadows
laughing, having disappeared again without notice. Instead, they sat across from her, looking
confused and alarmed. Noah’s brow furrowed as he stared at them. She assumed he
had the same inclination.
The knocks continued, increasingly louder, like someone
was throwing boulders at a tree. A sudden silence was quickly pierced with a
whooping screech, like an owl. As the boys traded confused stares, Noah shook
his head.
“Can’t be.”
“No way. No way, no way!” Owen repeated, his eyes
scanning the coniferous silhouettes. His head cocked as he listened harder,
like a trained house dog investigating noise.
“Yes, yes!” Luke whispered excitedly, back arching and
hand cupped over his ear. A series of foreign howls answered.
Aly shifted with
anxiety. “Those are coyotes. It’s getting dark.”
“They’re different though. Listen. Shh,” Luke shushed,
face tensing.
“No way,” Owen repeated. “Seriously?”
Aly glanced up, offering a questioning stare.
Noah explained hesitantly, “They think it’s the wood
beast.” She frowned, trying to summon the mental image of the monkey-like totem
pole. Seeing her concern, he added, “Because they’re idiots.”
“Hey now, don’t hate,” Luke insisted, listening for a
second whoop. “It’s the Gigit, man.”
“The what?” Aly asked, pulling her hoodie closer around
her. The sound continued, and seemed to summon quiet. It was difficult not to hear, like something big was
in pain.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Luke demanded, waving his hands as
though he was directing traffic. “You are Greg Glass’s daughter, and you don’t
know what the Gigit is?”
“My father and I are not exactly close.” Aly sighed,
ignoring the hackles along her spine. She spoke clearly and firm, setting
straight a record too warped for her own comprehension.
“Noah would know all about parental issues,” Luke
added. “A real ballbuster that one.”
“What’s the guy-geet?”
“The Gigit… like Omah-” Owen began.
“Bigfoot,” Noah chimed.
She laughed, cheered on by another round of howling
coyotes. “Sasquatch, hmm?” They grinned, pleased with themselves. “I’m not
really getting the Greg reference, but that’s priceless.” She applauded
lightly, forcing the discomfort of the noise away, out of her head.
“She’s joking, right?” Luke asked, turning to Owen and
Noah for an explanation.
“My father’s a biologist.”
“Researcher,” Owen corrected, suspiciously.
“A biologist,” she repeated, adding, “Not exactly an
anthropological-phenomena buff. He sent me a pamphlet about the area for
Christmas when I was seven, but I think that’s the extent of his cultural
interest. I can’t imagine he’s all that into legends. He pleads science like
it’s an amendment.”
Noah bit his lip. Owen and Luke blinked, chuckling
nervously, unsure how to gage her seriousness.
What am I missing here?
A thunderous crack sent Owen and Luke to their feet,
alarmed. Noah tensed, gently placing a concerned hand on the small of her back.
“Like you said, it’s getting late.” Noah’s eyes moved
between Aly, his friends, and the forest’s shifty profiles.
“We should leave,” Owen agreed, nodding emphatically
with Luke, who was silent for the first time since Aly met him.
She watched as Owen dumped water on the fire and
stomped out the embers, bending his leg backward to inspect his sneakers for
melted rubber. Flicking on flashlights and gathering their bags hurriedly, Owen
and Luke scrambled, looking increasingly nervous.
Where Noah’s hand rested, he began to trace small
circles. She resisted the urge to let her eyes flutter shut; tingles sparked
the skin beneath his touched.
When Noah stood, she was reluctant to move, as though
her stillness would convince him to sit again. As the howls continued, she
shivered. Accepting his offered hand, Aly followed as the others tore down the
trail.
“Bizarre,” she murmured, waiting until Luke and Owen
had disappeared around a corner. They ran ahead for the quads like a tsunami
was about to lap at their ankles.
They say the waters come slow.
“Welcome to Ashland,” Noah laughed. The stress of the
situation immediately dissipated. She smiled, her shoulders relaxing as he
continued, “So what's your theory?”
“My theory?” She was unsure how to answer. “Is that
Luke suffers from Napoleon syndrome.”
“Evil,” he considered, “but justified.”
“You see it?” Aly teased, leaning against his arm. He
walked with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. She felt herself mirroring
his body language.
It occurred to her the posture wasn’t in her physical
vocabulary, and suddenly felt unnatural. Aly eased her fingers out of the
pockets of her boot cuts, locking her fists into her elbows, hugging herself.
“I do,” Noah agreed. “They're awful aren't they?
Possibly the worst way to convince a pretty girl to stick around.”
She found herself holding her breath again, and slowly
exhaled. He smiled to himself, watching her reaction as carefully as she
searched his. She let her hair fall across her face, breaking eye contact.
Shifting, she forced to shoulders slacken beneath the scrutiny.
I’m being such a freak.
“Not awful,” she corrected. Staring at her wringing
fingers, she was unsure how to calm the flutter in her chest. Aly smiled,
braving a glance at his eyes.
He squinted across the horizon as they walked, his grin
fading in distant thought.
Her gaze traveled the hem along his shoulder, realizing
his jacket would have been unseasonable in a Kingsley summer. Even if to escape
the plague of black flies, he'd seem peculiar amongst crowds of bare skin and
swim shorts. It was unheard of to avoid the lake beaches in June. The water was
cherished until tourists invaded mid-July.
A dimple quirked, preceding his growing smile before
twisting to an unreadable expression. Pushing up his sleeve, he scratched at
his wrist.
She caught a flash of ink. With her fingers
outstretched, she traced the curling image of a snake, while pretending not to
notice his shiver.
“Is this what Owen was talking about?” Aly asked,
endlessly curious. She hoped that removed from the previous conversation, he
wouldn’t be so quick to unnerve. The nagging thought was irresistible.
“Yeah,” he said, tugging on the fabric to expose the
tattoo. Twisting his wrist, he scrutinized the work like it was a recent
discovery. “In a lot of cultures, the snake represents regeneration and
revival. Shedding the skin… It’s supposed to be the end of an existence and the
beginning of another, in the middle of your life. It’s not the prettiest thing
in the world. I don’t think rebirth is supposed to be, though.”
“It’s beautiful,” Aly whispered. The style was tribal,
but not native in an Alaskan-indigenous sense. She couldn’t place an origin,
only noticing it was more fierce than cartoonish, certainly not grotesque. She
didn’t understand what he was thinking. Grinning, she added, “Much more manly
than the apron.”
He laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Pulling her close, he planted a playful kiss
on the head. She bit her lip, unable to disguise her smile.
Okay, try not to die.
He watched her for a moment before becoming lost in
thought, his thumb tracing the serpent. After a while, she realized he was
considering the afternoon’s events.
“He’s a good guy – Tony. He and his wife used to do
foster care and stuff before she died. I mean, he drinks, but everyone does.
That’s Ashland,” Noah said, finally. “He’s the most lighthearted drinker in
town though, strange… goofy, I guess. Not so depressing and sloppy. When my
sister, Sarah, was a toddler, he actually saved her from a rip current. You’d
think he’d be a hero or something the way the locals talk. People don’t get
him, but he’s cool.”
“Why don’t they like him, then?” Aly mused, tucking a
curl behind her ear.
“They’re judgmental. What are you going to do?”
Releasing a sigh, he bit his lip, shifting his gaze to her again.
Noting that it was rhetorical, Aly stayed silent as he
watched her. They shared a snicker when they reached the lean-to, finding the
other quads gone. He unlocked a chain from the key-start and ignited the
engine.
Taking his hand, Aly was more than happy to join
him.
©Miranda Wheeler 2012
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THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STOPPING IN MIRANDA!!!
A GIVEAWAY!!!
XOXO,
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