I don’t remember how old I was when I decided which genres of fiction I would enjoy, but I DO remember that I was thirteen when I fell in love with horror and fantasy. The former was thanks to the genius that is Stephen King and the short stories found in Skeleton Crew. The latter was due to my discovery of David Eddings’ Belgariad series. When I was older, I started borrowing mysteries from my grandmother (Agatha Christie, mostly) and read a lot of forensics-heavy mysteries by Kathy Reichs and Patricia Cornwell–unless I was on a plane. My ONLY plane-ride reads were mysteries by Robert B. Parker, dialogue-heavy books that I could start during take-off and devour in the five-ish hours it took to arrive on the West coast.

Until a few years ago, I avoided the dusty little corner of the store where the Westerns reside. And then Robert B. Parker wrote a western. And another. And I knew it would be a good read regardless of subject, simply because I enjoy Parker’s style. I gave it a chance, enjoyed it, and started browsing the section. And that’s when I realized: Westerns have The Most Kickass Titles. 

<Damn right, bullets don’t die.  So don’t even TRY to…kill a bullet. Cuz, you will fail. Also, you might look kinda stupid trying to stab a bullet>

<…are the fine states of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama?>

<I don’t know what a “High Grader” is, but it sure looks like I wanna be one>

<This would also be a splendid title for an erotica novel by Trixie Loinburger>

<Need I say anything about this one?>

So, are there any Westerns you particularly enjoy? What does one drink when one reads a Western? Beer? Whiskey? Is there a genre that you think can TOP the Kickass Title Championship currently held by these fine offerings? Are there any titles that knock your socks off?

Just a quick note today. I do believe we are aiming for an April release. By that, I did not mean that the people who have me chained in the basement are planning to unleash me in April to wreak havoc in the streets (though that sounds like fun, too). I meant, of course, the release of Death Rejoices, the second book in the Marnie Baranuik series. Now, I know we’re all very excited, but do try to control yourselves…

<Mmmnnyeah, don’t do that>

This is crunch-time, people, so if you see me wandering the streets in my pajamas, talking to myself exclusively in foreign swear words, pulling on my hair, and trying to take down full-grown trees with my teeth, just duck behind a big shrub until I’ve passed by and you should be perfectly safe.

Side note: I recently downloaded a Magic 8 Ball app for my phone, and am now letting it make all my decisions. I don’t believe in plastic prognostications, except that I totally do. But no. Yeah. So, let’s try it out. FOR SCIENCE!

Me: Should I go for a walk? *poke*

Magic 8 Ball: Cannot Predict Now.

Me: Okay, so maybe later. Should I read a book in a bubble bath with some chocolate and a glass of wine?

Magic 8 Ball: Outlook not so good.

Me: What–why? Am I gonna drown in the tub?

Magic 8 Ball: Without a doubt.

Me: Uh, I think I know how to take a bath without accidentally killing myself?

Magic 8 Ball: Don’t count on it.

Me: Magic 8 Ball, are you a piece of shit?

Magic 8 Ball: Very doubtful.

Me: Am *I* a piece of shit?

Magic 8 Ball: It is decidedly so.

Me: OH YEAH? *poke!*

Magic 8 Ball: Ask again later.

Me: I said, OH YEAH?? *jab jab jab!* Think you’re so much smarter than me, huh?? *JAB!*

Magic 8 Ball: You may rely on it.

So, obviously this thing is way-way wrong. *checks it* I mean, in all the ways, all wrong. *checks it again* Clearly, I shouldn’t even ask it. *checks again* Stupid broken ball.

(author’s note: This is my I’m-Getting-Super-Serious-With-The-Things face. No? Not so much? Okay, it’s my Fetch-My-Cookie-Or-Else-I’ll-Write-You-A-Sternly-Worded-Letter face. Totally scary, right?)

Earlier in the month, I had the dubious pleasure of forwarding the rough final draft of the manuscript for Death Rejoices to my editor (AKA Bossyboots McMeaniepants) and my publisher, at which point I basically did this…

<meep!>

…for about a week and a half, waiting for feedback. The editor’s feedback was (and continues to be) a constant barrage of ego-knocking queries and general knuckle rapping. (Boy, it’s a good thing I spelled that with two p’s.) The publisher, who is a big fan of the first book in the Marnie Baranuik series, had a few easily-juggled suggestions, but one major problem with the second book:

NEEDS MORE SEX.

Nooooo problem, said I, with a twinkle in my eye. Sex, I can do. Sex, I can EASILY add. After all, I’m the Writerghoulie, your genial purveyor of filth, smut, and chocolate-covered nip-slips. (Just kidding! I prefer honey.)

Besides, I said, I know exactly where to stick it. Wait. I meant, I know where to put the–oh, nevermind, you knew what I meant.

So, I flipped open my trusty laptop, skimmed through the manuscript to find the perfect spot (not there, nope, just a little bit lowerrrrrrr–THERE! *ahem*) and, cracking my knuckles as all serious writerly types are wont to do, I settled my fingers on the keyboard, took a deep, cleansing breath, and…

Hrrmmm. *frown* Okay, nothing happened. I read again the scene as it unfolded sans hubba-hubba-dick-smack. Wait, what?! That’s the worst euphemism for sex I’ve ever heard. Probably, you should never smack a dick unless you’re sure that’s what he’s into. Please do not quote me on that, though. Some Aaltos have incredible architecture to their credit; I don’t want THIS Aalto to have a quote about dick-smacking follow me to the grave and beyond.

Where was I? Right, dick-smacking. NO! Sex scenes. It occurred to me that if I came up with a list of sexy words, words that generally pop off the page and make your tingly bits throb (like tingle and throb, for example, or stroke, lick, and tease…), then I’d have a running start at this scene. I made some tea, poured it down the sink, dumped two cups of Fireball whiskey in my mug, and attempted some brainstorming. The whiskey, in retrospect, might be to blame for the resulting unfortunate phone call.

Me: Hey, um, what’s a sexier word for chubby?

Heather: Hello to you, too. Jeee-zus.

Me: Not fat. I mean chubby as in ye olde blue-veined gobstuffer.

Heather: Are you high? What are you talking about?

Me: Cock.

Heather: *chokes on her Dr. Pepper* Woman, I’m in class, here. I can’t discuss… *lowers her voice* I can’t discuss Wee Willy Winkie.

Me: Nope, that’s too polite. Also, no self-respecting woman leans in close to her lover and asks for his Wee Willy Winkie. Not if she doesn’t wanna get cuffed upside the head.

Heather: Can’t we text this?

Me: No.

Heather: Why the hell not?

Me: Tell me which of these words makes you wet…

Heather: I need new friends.

Me: Prick, dick, tube-steak, wiener, meat-whistle, one-eyed trouser snake, crack-hunter–boy, these are all terrible–skin flute, todger, bahookie…

Heather: Stop saying words, now.

Me: What’s the problem? Dong, schlong, beard-splitter, snatch-tickler…

Heather: Snatch-tickler?!

Me: Problem?

Heather: Uh, YEAH, I just yelled “snatch-tickler” and now everyone’s staring at me.

Me: What about Captain Hornington?

Heather: That’s not a thing. Or if it is, it shouldn’t be.

Me: Not sexy? Hmm…Bald-headed bandit, woody, pecker…

Heather: I’m begging you.

Me: Oh, see, I got you begging. Am I turning you on? Root, boner, stiffy, love-muscle…Oh wait! Fucknozzle!

Heather: Gee, Al, I’d love just one day where you don’t yell fucknozzle in my ear.

Me: Fine, let’s skip penis for now. Let’s move on to other body parts.

Heather: Might as well, you just made me say “fucknozzle” in class.

Me: Fuzzburger is probably not hot, right? But what about squishmitten?

Heather: Oh, God.

Me: And cooch is certainly not working for me…

Heather: I’m thirsty. Is it safe for me to take a sip, or are you still talking?

Me: OH! OH!

Heather: *alarmed* Whatever it is, just no.

Me: I think I’ve got a great sentence for this scene.

Heather: I’m willing to bet when you sober up you’ll delete it.

Me: He slid his throbbing lance into her cock-locker.

Heather: Noooooooo he didn’t. Tell me you’re not typing that.

Me: You’re right, it should be dripping cock-locker.

Heather: I HEAR KEY STROKES.

Me: Of course you do. If I add a dollop of glistening man-spackle to that sentence, it’s GOLD.

Heather: It’s really not.

Me: Can you think of a better sentence?

Heather: Almost any sentence is better than that one. Seriously, didn’t you write a blog about how to write sex scenes?

Me: Pretty sure I said man-spackle in that blog, too.

Heather: My point is: why don’t you go back and take your own damn advice?

Me: Well, I’ve got a weird problem. I’m trying to write a sex scene with a male character that I’m not currently being aroused by. And I can’t seem to see him in that way right now. All I can think about is–well, other characters.

Heather: Aha. So instead of throwing ridiculous slang at the problem, why don’t you revisit the times you DID see that character as sexy? What made him so hot the first time?

Me: *thinking hard* Well, he’s dangerous. But safe.

Heather: Mmhmm.

Me: And sorta…predatory. Slow, cautious, a real hunter. He plays hard to get, but not because he’s shy. He wants you to earn it. He knows he’s worth your making an effort. He wants to see how much you want him. And when he finally decides to make you his…

Heather: Okay, good. *gulp* That’s enough. You got it…

Me: His approach is confident. He takes his time. He lingers, letting his hands explore, tasting every inch of his prey, savoring her every quiver and gasp…

Heather: *whimper* I’m hanging up now!

Me: Oh, hey! *nipples harden* I think I felt him enter my brain, just now. *closes eyes* Yep. Those powerful arms, those massive shoulders, his soft, flicking tongue…unf.

Well, hello, my Harry.

(Editor’s note: AJ would like to thank her chief Beta Reader for reminding her that the words are less important than the images they invoke. Sometimes I forget that. Forest for trees, or something like that. This week is sex scene week, which is why I’m horizontal. Looks like Harry Dreppenstedt and I will be spending a lot of time together. Humina humina hell yes!) 

I come in from the cold Arctic blast that is January in Ontario, stamping my boots and huffing and making an emphatic “Woo!” to let  all the indoor folk know the state of the whirlwind out there, like all good snow-shovelers do. I pull off ice-encrusted gloves, kick my boots in a corner, gesture meaningfully at the snowy window, and exhale hard at my husband.

Me: I need a ski mask.

Viking: Never.

Me: But… I need one for shoveling snow.

Viking: YOU are never getting a ski mask. Ever. With a capital-N Never.

Me: But look at the pinkness factor of my cheeks.

Viking: Cute.

Me: But it’s COLD out there. Really-really cold. I need a ski mask.

Viking: We’ve been together 17 years. You’ve never needed a ski mask. I am FORCED, with no small amount of dread, to wonder why you need one now.

Me: I got old. My old-lady cheek-al regions are more delicate.

Viking: No.

Me: My old-lady chin might freeze and fall right off.

Viking: No.

Me: You’ll have a chinless wife. You’ll divorce me for some young chick with both her cheeks and an intact chin.

Viking: Wait.  You said the D-word. *dreamy look* Let me enjoy that for a second.

Me: My old-lady fist might punch you right in the ass.

Viking: Good luck with all that. Let me get you the step stool.

Ten minutes later…

Me: Is the credit card still linked to my Amazon account?

Viking: Buying a book?

Me: Yep.

Viking: What’s it about?

Me: *blinkblink* It’s about, uh…an old lady. Who lives in the, um, Arctic. Her chin fell off and her husband left her. And she has to–

Viking: Buy a ski mask on Amazon?

Me: Drat.

Fifteen minutes later….

Me: Goin’ on a Timmies run, want a coffee?

Viking: Sure, thanks.

Me: Okay, so, yeah, I’m gonna take $20 from your wallet for that cuz I’m broke.

Viking (not looking up from his laptop):  A ski mask shouldn’t cost a whole $20…

Me:  It doesn’t, it’s on sale at–oh, drat.

Viking: You suck at ski masks.

Me: I DO NOT!

Viking: You really do. How are you ever going to make your big foray into the criminal underworld?

Me: I’m gonna skip ski masks altogether and go straight to full-on HAZMAT.

Viking: Stealthy.

Me: You don’t know. I’m very small. I could be stealthy in HAZMAT.

Viking: You couldn’t be stealthy wearing an invisibility cloak during a vow of silence.

Half an hour later….

Viking: That’s some bright yarn. What are you crocheting?

Me: Oh, just somethin’ I saw online …

(Author’s note: On a writing note, I am finally finishing up Death Rejoices, the second book in the Marnie Baranuik Files, and plunging directly into the third, tentatively entitled Last Impressions. My new home–even in this -25 degree weather–has been the Old Lakeview Cemetery in Thorold. I find myself driving out there in the evenings alone and just wandering. If I do happen to go missing, probably I bumped into a bigger, weirder nutbar out there and someone should check between the stones for my sad little remains. Hrm, that ended on a gloomy note, jeez. Back to happy, back to happy!)