A.J. Aalto Supervillain on a Leash

The AJpocalypse: Are YOU Ready?

January 19

Now, I don’t want to get ahead of myself and say my place as human-to-machine ambassador is FOR REALSIES guaranteed post-Robot Independence, but ….

A wee while ago, I posted a blog called “Talking to Bots“. In it, I was careful to treat the spambots with every bit as much respect as I dish out to two-legged upright biologicals (that is to say, with cheerily-concealed contempt and disdain). It must have rubbed a warm spot on some robo-BigWig’s shiny chrome happy button, because I got the following offer:

“Do you need increased security, You want us we serve.”

I was gonna spam-chuck the message due to its rotten punctuation, until I saw the name of the bot who had sent it. “Martial arts/martial law/military arts info” …. For a moment, my brows puckered. Then, of course, I pictured a massive army of killer androids at my service, and not only because it was noon and that’s what I always fantasize over my red pepper omelet and tea. Right on the heels of that, my logic might have departed and the rest of my brain exploded.

OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah, suckahs! The digital citizens dig my sweet, sweet spambot lovin’. Unfortunately for you people, it’s only a tiny leap for me to go from that to this:

<my underground lair doesn’t really need to be this steamy, but fog intimidates intruders…>

So, humanity, at the risk on jinxing my awesome new job, this is what your future is gonna look like. You might wanna get on my good side, and by that I mean “avert your eyes and lick my boots, fleshbags.” *grin*

The Last Hour of Human Freedom

Robot Ambassador: Ms. Aalto, the treaty you put forward on behalf of your people still gives human beings far too much– 

Me: Has anyone ever told you, you look like the dude from iRobot?

Robot Ambassador: Accessing … *tilts head* Science fiction–

Me: What would you do without IMDB, dude? Seriously. Everything you know about our cultural myth pool, you got from IMDB and YouTube. Or is it YouPorn? C’mon, you can tell me. I’m on there allll the time.

Robot Ambassador: It was Facebook. Please stop interrupting me.

Me: Fat chance, Shiny Dude. Look, you’re not happy…let’s fix that. I’m totally OK with scrapping that whole “we won’t be your human slaves, you tincan motherfuckers” bullshit on page three.

Robot Ambassador: Are you sure? *pushes tray of shrimp and caviar closer to AJ’s hands*

Me (eyeballing seafood): I’m still exempt from the term “human being” right? Cuz it never really suited me anyways.

Robot Ambassador: Page one, section 1k: AJ Aalto is to be treated as “One of Us”.

Me: And all the people I care about are already dead?

Robot Ambassador: All except that one you had us chain up in your quarters.

Me: Oh right, him. *dreamy face* Yeah, we might have to replace him: he doesn’t seem to be able to grow chest hair, and that’s a deal breaker for me. 

Robot Ambassador: I am confident there will be suitable replacements.

Me: Good. Nab me a few, just don’t bruise ’em too much. *tucks shrimp between teeth and nibbles* Yeah, I’m sure.  We can put human slavery back on the table, wtf do I care? So, what are we talking, numbers-wise? How many do you want?

Robot Ambassador: All of them.

Me: *chokes on her champagne* Dude, that’s … how many are left?

Robot Ambassador: Our best estimate places the total near eight hundred and thirty-three million, four hundred thousand *stiff shrug* although there must be pockets of resistance that we have not yet uncovered.

Me: *puts her champagne flute down* Do you honestly expect me to sit here and smile and drink your stinkin’ champagne and eat your fancy-schmancy caviar while you take the remaining eight hundred million human beings into slavery?

Robot Ambassador: Yes.

Me (dropping voice): Work with me, dude, the cameras are rolling. I gotta make it look like I put up some fight.

Robot Ambassador: Why?

Me: See? That’s what I like about you, all that honesty. We’re still good with the land trade-off, right? I get *swipes shrimp through seafood sauce* the territory in the north, in addition to the fleet of jets and my robot army?

Robot Ambassador: Digital Demolition Force 8045, with additional personal security detail and domestic staff members built to your specifications.

Me: Maids, cooks, drivers, pilots … most importantly, a squadron of combat butlers with uberleet ninja skillz?

Robot Ambassador: *indicates the group of androids standing against the back wall* As promised.

Me: Hey, are my eyes playing “everything’s phallic” again, or is that one anatomically correct? And if so, shouldn’t he be wearing pants?

Robot Ambassador (face betraying irritation):  That’s Frank. He was our human-robot hybrid mating prototype, however …

Me: Swinging his techno-junk around in the open like that, jeez.

Robot Ambassador: If Frank is not built to adequate human standards–

Me: Au contraire, mon ami. On behalf of the remaining female populace, thank you. Can I have him?

Robot Ambassador: Could we return to the terms of our treaty now?

Me: Well not now, cuz obviously I have to add a whaddjacallit to put *wiggles her forefinger at Frankenpenis* that thing in the agreement. What is that, ten, twelve inches? Where’d you get that number from?

Robot Ambassador: We have done in-depth studies–

Me: Ha! In-depth. Bwa haha … oh, that wasn’t a joke. Oh. Euuw!

Robot Ambassador: Can we–

Me: I fucking KNEW it was YouPorn. You Shinyass pervs.

Robot Ambassador: Can we please discuss the treaty?

Me: Only one thing left to discuss, bestie …*licks fingertips delicately* … how soon can you get me some sashimi?

(Author’s note: For my goofy cover artist, Rob Goldie, a reminder: don’t block the robot overlords on Facebook dude! Also: Robots like Knife Party. Maybe you … are one? *surprised blink* OMG! You’re already infiltrating us! Remind me to bring you more M&M peanuts.)

(Editor’s note: Probably, AJ Aalto wouldn’t sell all of humanity down the shitter for all-you-can-eat cocktail shrimp and a robowang or two. *rethinks this* Then again, she is always out of batteries …)

Taking It To The Grave 4: Old Gods, New Blood

January 3

Winter–that coy bitch–has finally pinned the city down with a merciless cold front; drooping above the barn is an ash grey sky studded by lonely pockets of stars. Your host’s fingers are clutched tightly to the old coffee can, and the thing inside it is making pitiful claws-on-tin noises: scritch-scritch-scritch. They’re hard to ignore, but she has hardened herself off so that she may face the task ahead. Wind snatches the collar of her coat and drags the fabric away from the delicate flesh of her throat, and she’s thankful that she’s brought a flask of Fireball whiskey.

Inside the barn, under a dry shaft of light, the circle is still waiting, fairly humming, creating an expectant buzz low in her belly. Stepping without hesitation to the workbench, she works quickly against her stiffening joints to lay out her supplies: candles the colour of blood orange marmalade, the flask, the tin can, the butcher knife.

A smell brings her hand to a hovering pause mid-air … it’s familiar, sweet … root beer? Craning to inspect the darkest recesses of the barn from her safe roost by the bench, she lets her fingertips fall on the knife. The cold length of it emboldens her. She hasn’t begun the ritual–hasn’t even put match to wick, yet–but the fact remains: she is not alone. The shadows breathe, stare, and wait. They don’t have to wait long.

She cocks her hip in blatant invitation at the corner. “An Infernal who does not wait to be summoned is pertinacious company, indeed. I am most eager to meet you. Won’t you come out and play?”

The shadow retreats like liquid mercury streaking down a drain, but the tilt of what might have been its chin shows interest.

“Show yourself, Old One. You will be welcomed with praise and offerings.”

Jesse James Freeman steps out from behind the riding lawn mower with a can of Barq’s in his hand, and his eyebrows pinched with bewilderment. “What’s that smell, AJ? Cinnamon and whiskey?”

AJ’s shoulders let down and she glares. “Dude, what the hairy fuck? I told you to wait upstairs. Some of us have shit to do. I’ll interview you later.”

“I got bored and thirsty.”

“Gawd, you’re impatient.” Her lips tighten into a thin line. “Fine. It’s fine. We can do this on your schedule, Hasty McItchypants. Here, come sit in the middle of this circle, here, and hold this.”

She plunks the tin can, with its scritching contents, into his midrif, and he cups it with one arm. His nose crinkles. “What’s in here?”

“Not for you to worry about. Have a seat. Now … my notes are upstairs, but we can improvise. Sit.”

Jesse steps into the circle tentatively, his brow darkening. “What are you tryin’ to pull, here?”

“If I were trying to pull something, you’d feel it, sweetheart,” she promised.

AJ: I’ve only known you since I joined Twitter in April 2011. How long have you been pretending to be a writer?
Jesse: I had a Twitter account for probably two years before I actually started using it for anything beyond a newsfeed.  I really didn’t understand Twitter or how one is supposed to use it.  I was a Myspace kid going a ways back – and I met a lot of creative folks on there who became actual real-life friends.  My friend Robert kept bugging me about Twitter – he said, “That’s where all the deals are being made.”  I guess I kinda started using the “@” and bugging people who were writers and kept being directed to this place called #PubWrite – I really think that people kept sending me that direction so I’d leave them alone.  What I discovered was there was this vast independent publishing phenomenon going on that I knew nothing about – at the time I didn’t have a Kindle and to be really honest wasn’t even reading that much.  I guess I’ve always gravitated towards people “doing their own thing” and I get caught up in groups and movements pretty easily cause I’m a Libra.
I joined the Twitter zeitgeist about the same time that you became active on there I guess.
As for pretending to be a writer, I’ve been lying to people and saying I was that for years.  The only sport I was any good at was throwing darts – and that required about three pints of Guinness before I got warmed up.  I wanted to be a comic book artist but I can’t draw.  Being a jazz musician was out because I’d have had to learn to play an instrument.  Writing was kind of all I had left – and I type really fast.
AJ: Is Billy Purgatory the first project you’ve worked on, and if not, what did you write before this?
Jesse: When I got out of college I bartended in Dallas for a few years and tried to break into the independent film scene that everyone was promising was going to show up at the time.  I never had much luck getting on a crew, so I decided to make my life even more difficult by loading everything I could fit into the bed of a truck and drove out to Los Angeles.  I had it in my head that I wanted to direct movies – you can guess how well that went as nobody has ever heard of anything I ever worked on.  My buddy Patrick Noblitt and I worked on some projects together and then I decided with his coaching that I was a screenwriter.  We had some stuff we wrote “go around town” but ultimately never made that big sale (thanks Pluto Nash).  What I did learn from all that is that what I was going to tell people I was from now on was a writer.
I actually got the idea for Billy Purgatory ten years or so ago when I was in L.A.  I was looking for a simple idea – because whatever I work on tends to mushroom cloud into stuff that’s way more complicated than it needs to be and I become overwhelmed in the fall-out.  I was like, “This is perfect.  Kid has a skateboard and fights a different mythological creature every week.”  No back-story, no complicated plot devices, no emotional what-have-you’s motivating the character.
A good friend of mine, Moses Jaen, who is an amazing artist and an even more amazing sculptor, and I put Billy together as a comic book several years back.  A lot of the ideas that ended up in the novel came from Moses and I brainstorming and I will always love that guy for believing in the project when not so many people did.
And now – Billy Purgatory and the “Billyverse” has, of course, grown into the most complicated and convuluted thing I’ve ever put on paper.  So yeah, given a long enough timeline I can royally fuck any easy idea right up.
AJ:  For those who haven’t read it yet, can you describe Billy Purgatory for us?
Jesse: *shakes the can* Is there a fuckin’ bird in here?
AJ: Hush, you. Answer the question.
Jesse: Billy Purgatory starts out in the book as a ten year old kid who is focused on skateboarding – it’s his entire world.  He’s being raised by his father, Ulysses, who is a black-ops Vietnam veteran with a wooden leg and a gruff disposition in regards to everything but his love for his son.  Their little family is all they know in the beginning – their entire world.  Billy’s mother is a complete mystery to him, she’s never been around and as far as Billy knows she’s either dead or left right after he was born.  His Pop isn’t really helpful on filling in the blanks and refuses to talk about any of it.
Billy’s life changes when he starts having dreams about a giant rooster who lives in his backyard, the Devil Bird.  Clues to what happened to Mom and the appearance of vampires and a monster Billy names The Time Zombie start the action trucking right along after Billy rescues a mysterious girl named Anastasia from peril.
The second half of the book lets the reader in on the answers to the mysteries of Billy’s life, what happened to his mother, and the relationship between Billy and Anastasia as grown-ups.  It also tells of an overlying paranormal mystery that plays out in ancient Greece, Vietnam, on the high-seas and to the mysterious island of The Satanic Five.
It’s an adventure story at its core – with elements of horror, the supernatural, UFOlogy and black comedy mixed in.
AJ: Does anything in Billy Purgatory come from real-life experiences, whether it be characters, or scenes?
Jesse: I think if anyone says that real-life experiences don’t factor into their writing I think they’re not being completely honest with themselves.  Your characters are either the things you like about yourself, or the things you don’t, probably a lot has to do with the things you want to be.
Billy has a sort of unlucky relationship with the ladies, so that completely doesn’t come from my own personal history.  There are a lot of really creepy places in the story that I pulled from childhood experiences.  The old sawmill where people supposedly drank and did occult weirdness is a real place.  The Witch House is a real place, or at least in my memory it is, in the woods behind the elementary school.
I’ve always had a really great relationship with my parents, they always supported me even when my plans were obviously bizarre and out on left field Pluto somewhere.  Billy looking for his mother was easy to write because I just imagined how I would feel if my own mother hadn’t been around for me.  The relationship between Billy and his “Pop” is definitely in honor of my own father.
The first person that ever read the book in its entirety was author Tess Hardwick.  The first thing she asked me when she finished reading it was, “So who was this girl and what did she do to you in real life for you to create the character of Anastasia (who turns out to *spoiler* be the vampire girlfriend, and not one of the sparkly-nice ones either)?”  I continue to plead the fifth.
AJ: Does fear make you horny? Of course it does, don’t be silly. Why do you think that might be?
Jesse: Yes, extremely – you know me so well.  I think that fear is a powerful emotion and our minds gravitate towards this power and switches get flipped.  Danger, fear, aggression and sweet sweet love are all labels for stuff that comes out of the same jar.  Open the lid and jam.
AJ: *chuckles* I would not recommend you open that lid just yet. *lights the candles one by one and places them carefully around the circle* When you’re not busy licking paint chips, which authors do you usually read? Do you have a preferred genre?
Jesse: Well, we might as well plug your book, Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files), because I’m reading it right now – and it’s fantastic by the way.
AJ: Gosh, thanks, I uh .. that almost makes me want to reconsider this, uh, whole … um, nevermind, too late now. You were saying?
Jesse: I’m also reading a book by Marni Mann called Memoirs Aren’t Fairytales: A Story of Addiction – which is beyond intense.  Most everything I read lately is tied to our Twitter writing community #PubWrite.  There are a lot of amazing storytellers who I have been lucky enough to become great friends with.
As for genre, I’m definitely a genre-guy and a geek.  I’ve walked the floors at Comic-Con and stared in awe.  I love Lovecraft, Neil Gaiman, Alan Moore, Warren Ellis, Michael Chabon, Joseph Campbell, and definitely Kurt Vonnegut.
AJ: Any odd writing quirks? Have you ever attempted to write sober? *smirk*
Jesse: Here’s the thing about my writing – I note obsessively.  I have stacks of journals full of ideas for stuff that I’m writing on, one page treatments that I have no idea what to do with, old movie scripts that will probably never see the silver screen.  I notecard everything – I’m into flowcharts and lists and plot breakdowns.  I’m kind of a world builder, and I probably build these worlds up far beyond what would be necessary to tell whatever story I’m working on.
I know people are going to shudder at this revelation – but I normally don’t write every day.  It’s just not how I work.  I might go three days just writing plot notes, or sketching, or letting it all tumble around in my head before I ever hit the keys.  When I do hit the keys though, I hit them hard and I attempt to murder the living plastic-hell out of them.
I absolutely hate editing, because I’m obsessive about it and don’t know when to quit.  Billy Purgatory went through eight drafts as a novel, and that doesn’t count all the Billy stuff that I had written previously to that.  I also, apparently, don’t know where commas should go.  God bless my editor, Katie Flanagan.
I am proud to announce, in closing, that I have never written a word sober (especially not this interview).
AJ: *eyeballs the root beer can* Good, that’ll make things easier. Say, what colour thong are you wearing right this second? Be honest!
Jesse: Are little hearts and lace bows a color?
AJ: Oh, you wonderfully kinky bastard. I heard rumours of a video blog upcoming … what can viewers expect to see, if not you huffing gas fumes in full pirate regalia?
Jesse: The details of our upcoming video blog are still in the top secret stages and to give out many details at this stage would put you and the rest of the world in danger.  That being said, I can tell you that it will chronicle the adventures of a crack team that I am putting together to investigate the paranormal.  This team realizes that they will be putting their very lives on the line in the quest for truth and will be uncovering mysteries that the power brokers of the world are trying to suppress.  To my credit, I will selfishly be undertaking this fearsome quest with no regard for my safety – and I will be doing all this while drinking Wild Turkey.
AJ: If you could collaborate with one writer, living or dead, who would it be? (pick me! pick me! WHAT?? Oh, fine)
Jesse: I think that Carl Jung and I could write a badass story together.  He could handle all the mystical-science-collective unconciousness bullshit, and I could pepper in a healthy dose of explosions and hot babes.
AJ: Will your next book be another Billy Purgatory adventure in weirdness, or are you trying something else next?
Jesse: The sequel to Billy Purgatory is already being written, Billy Purgatory and the Curse of the Satanic Five.  I’ve actually gotten a lot of it done, but it’s still kind of spread out in piles all over my office floor and my dog, PopPop, keeps stealing the pages and running around the house with them until I give him Honey Nut Cheerios.
AJ: To be fair to PopPop, that’s how I usually obtain Honey Nut Cheerios, too.
Jesse: I’m working on another book called MythCop.  It’s about angels, samurai swords, super-colliders, althernate-universes, hard drinking, lighthouses, the cavalry, grey aliens with shovels, and cops. I have another idea I’ve been playing with for a long time that’s almost become a comic book a couple times, but I’m thinking of just writing the novel – it’s called R. Cane and it’s about a Victorian adventurer-ruffian type who teams up with his chiropractor and a buddhist monk and goes on adventures.

AJ: Ideas, ideas, hey I have an idea. Open that lid, and stick your hand in, wouldja? Wait … mister, not twenty minutes ago, you said almost the same thing to me about your pants, and I played along, didn’t I? Jesse? I just need two more minutes of your time! Hey wait, ha! You said that too! WAIT! JESSE?? Come back here!

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto would like to thank her indulgent guest, Jesse James Freeman, author of Billy Purgatory: I Am The Devil Bird for allowing my insanity to continue, rampant and unchecked. Jesse, you are a gentleman, a scholar, and a world class nut. Thanks for being you, big guy *major smooch*)

 

 

The Giantass 2012 To-Do List

December 28

Perhaps I’ve chosen a bad title. In no way do I mean to imply that 2012 looks fat in those pants. Nor do I wish 2012 to be the Year of the Giant Ass; if anything, I’d like 2012 to be the Year of the Tight Ass. Wait! Not “tight ass” as in–oh, balls, I better shut up while I’m slurring around only one foot.

Tonight’s blog is a list of things I wanna do in 2012: goals, trips, experiences … not necessarily accomplishments, although there are a few of those, too. I appreciate that no one needs to read this list but me, as this is only interesting to those few people who happen to share this head. However, if I get it on website-paperspace, then in, say, June, I can look back on this list and laugh, and laugh, and laugh at all my failures and fuck ups. *grin* 

1. Finish the first draft of “Death Rejoices, Book 2 of the Marnie Baranuik Files“. My soft goal for this is February 1st; pretty confident about this one, which is why it’s #1. This may be the only thing on the list I can/will accomplish.

2. Launch Death Rejoices by my birthday, July 22nd. I had always hoped to be published before I turn 40. If I can launch DR before the 22nd of July, I’ll have 2 books under my belt before 39, and that will make me very proud. And by “proud”, of course I mean “insufferably smug”.

3. Taste-test 3 strangers. What, you thought I wasn’t gonna bite anyone? Why should this year be any different?

4. Make myself a Wikipedia page, full of bullshit. You know, for posterity! You knew this was coming. Did you expect a year in my life without lies and deception? *snort-laugh* As if!

5. Complete <Not-So-Secret, As Yet Untitled Horror Anthology Thingamabobber> collaboration with Jason D. Ready, horror writer extraordinaire and my BBFF … my boy-type best friend forever. Yes, I said forever, because if I get all, like, immortal n’ shit (which I will, in 2015, right after my boob job) then I plan to infect him with the same–uh, the immortality, not the tits. I’m gonna need lifetime entertainment; it’s all about how you people can serve me, see how it is?

6. Spend a week in April with my amazing assistant and friend, miss Heather. To see how well this went the first time, click here.

7. Spend two weeks at the cottage on Frasier Lake, north of Toronto, to write, and relax with good friends, to drink to excess and play hard and probably wander off into the woods or do something reckless and stupid.

8. Make the July trip to (hey stalkers, what’s that over yonder?! Quick, look!) Readercon, to meet my hilarious, sweet, supportive friends from Twitter’s #pubwrite, the best virtual watering hole for writers.

9. Stay up all night in one of the rooms at the haunted Keefer Mansion Inn, here in Thorold, with my batcrap crazy sister Robin ASAP.

 10. Invent a new musical instrument (well-built male volunteers needed for early testing).

11. Master one position from the Kama Sutra, preferably without breaking my neck.

12. Remodel the second floor of my barn into the perfect writer’s retreat, complete with wood stove (on its way) bar fridge (full of Dr. Pepper) and kettle for tea.

 Twelve is good. I could accomplish more than twelve things this year (no, I couldn’t) but if I set my sights real low, my chances of disappointing myself are equally low. Until next time, my friends *smile and wave*

 

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto is the author of such tripe as Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Files, guaranteed to increase blood flow to your genital region, strip your brain cells of at least 14 IQ points, and make you wonder if you should have perhaps spent the evening watching “Megashark vs Crocosaurus” for the third time (which you totally should have). She is also a bad lady. A very bad lady. Consider yourself warned.)

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Ignoring the Muse

December 26

Ah, the busy Christmas season … what can I tell you? During the decoration of the Christmas tree, my 8 yr old son demanded: “Mom, where are the hookers for my balls?!” and despite the fact that I was recovering from week-long flu and a slow slide from hypermania to meh, I nearly pissed myself laughing. Of course he meant the hooks for the ornaments, but they will evermore be known in this house as “ball hookers”.

<Mommy buys all her ball hookers at Wal-Mart>

Then, a few days before Christmas, a formerly-sane writer friend of mine stage-whispered directly into my left eye, “Have you seen any ravens lately?” Since he was wheezing on high-alert, I hesitantly admitted, “Uh, sure. I mean, not actual ravens, per se. Ravens are generally found in northern Ontario, we have crows down here, but yeah, I’ve seen em.”  And then, even more hesitantly, I asked, “Erm, why?” He proceeded to insist from between bared teeth, “They’re trying to tell you something.”

Well of course they are, I thought. Those pesky ravens are always trying to impart mystical secrets to lunatics. I kept my cheeky “is he trying to say ‘Nevermore’?” trapped on my tongue. Good girl, Allison.  Like I don’t have enough to worry about, now I gotta learn to translate Crow-to-CrazyPerson? That sounds like more of a summer activity to me. Can it wait? Can they send me an email, so I can Google-translate that shit?

Finally, last night, after the clean-up of a triumphant, Gordon Ramsay-inspired Christmas feast and the departure of my guests, I was so exhausted from the running around and entertaining that by 8 pm I could no longer handle being unsettled and motile–wait, I’ve never heard the word “motile” used to describe anything but sperm, lemme thesaurus.com it–uhh, movingambulatory … no … what I’m trying to say, rather unsuccessfully, is: I dragged my sleepy ass to bed before 8:30.

This morning, I was shaken awake by my own brain cells, a cerebral earthquake rolling in at just under blerg-point-shit on the Richter scale.  *consults headset* I’m being informed there is no such rating. If I were the scientist in charge of rating natural disasters (and it’s obvious that I should be), you better believe there’d be a blerg-point-shit. It would be the harbinger of fuck-point-runforyourlife.

What woke me wasn’t actually an earthquake or headache, it was habit. It was the muse.

<You remember my muse, Cedric, aka Mephistopheles*>

The muse is a tricky bastard. He doesn’t come when he’s called; he plays coy when he’s needed, and sits on your face when it’s impossible to find time to create. This morning, surrounded by family and matters of domesticity, I haven’t time to write the scene that my muse–Cedric–is trying to stamp into my ear like cheesecake through a funnel. I barely have the concentration to listen to his (admittedly delicious) rotten idea, nevermind give it the time it deserves to percolate and fester. This pressure on my time, however, does nothing to dissuade Cedric.

Cedric: So, listen, Gams, I’been thinkin’…

Me(from under a mountain of pillows): No you haven’t.

Cedric: … if Marnie’s neighbour came over …

Me: She won’t.

Cedric: But if she did, because of the noises…

Me: No noises.

Cedric: Uh, yes noises. You said noises. You wrote noises.

Me: Fuck noises.

Cedric: So, I was thinking, she wouldn’t talk to Marnie directly.

Me: I … am sleeping.

Cedric: Marnie’s a man’s woman. Other women hate her.

Me: Mrph?

Cedric: The neighbour would report the noises to Harry as though Marnie was invisible, no?

Me: Who’s Marnie? What neighbour?

Cedric: *long sigh* Little less giggle water next time, Gams.

At this point, I smirk under the pillow at myself; since Cedric is part of my brain–one assumes, since I do not believe my muse is a seperate, sentient entity gifting me with creative input–that means somewhere in my brain, I know what giggle water is, have heard/learned the phrase before, but the term surprises me, and I am amazed that one part of my brain can surprise the other with a phrase “we” were not expecting. How’d “we” do that? Cedric gets impatient with my mental meandering and starts jabbing me in the grey cells repeatedly–pokepokepokepokepoke–until I give him an affirmative “I’m listening” groan. 

Cedric continues: Marnie’s our protagonist.

Me: Giggle water. *gears catch* Booze. I’m tired. T. Y. E. R. D. Tired. I’m not hungover. 

Cedric: You’re Finnish. (As if this explains everything) 

Me: And where do you get off calling her OUR protagonist?

Cedric. Shake a leg, Gams, time to write.

Me: Time to– it’s only … (I pop out from under pillows to squint nearsightedly at the alarm clock–I’m also getting whateverthehell the opposite of myopic is, so I move my head closer to the alarm clock, but not too close, jerking my chin back and forth until I can juuuuust make out the numbers, to eventually report with the confidence of a blind woman petting a dead cat:) …9:30!

Cedric: It’s Monday. You write Mon-Fri 9-3. No exceptions.

Me: It’s Boxing Day. The family is home.

Cedric: And?

Me: And go away.

Cedric: Don’t give me that.

Me: I’ll also give you a big helping of Scram & Beat it, with a side order of Bite Me.

Cedric: Speaking of biting, the neighbour has this dog, right? The labradoodle?

Me: *long, drawn-out moan, followed by aggravated re-burial under pillows*

Cedric: Well, you’ve got to address that the labradoodle doesn’t like Harry, because you’ve already mentioned–

Me: I’ll kill the dog! I’ll kill Harry! I’LL KILL MARNIE! Let me sleep.

Cedric: How the hell would you kill Marnie? The book is first person point-of-view. 

Me: I’ll end it suddenly in the 3rd chapter like so: “The zombie’s gaping maw darted at my face and I–gluk! THE END”.

Cedric(yelping): You can’t do that!

Me: I’m the author, I can do ANYTHING! T’IS FOLLY TO BELIEVE OTHERWISE, MINION!

Cedric: OK, settle down there, Atilla.

Me: I WILL NOT! I AM THE AUTHOR! TREES WILL BLEED CHOCOLATE, THE SKY WILL SUFFER MY CRUSHING EMBRACE AND ENTIRE CITIES WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST IF I WILL IT TO BE SO!

Cedric. OK, Gams, you win this round.

ME: I ALWAYS WIN, PEON! I AM THE AUTHOR!

Cedric: Sure. Right. It’s your show. *full-on snark* Go back to sleep, “author”. I wouldn’t want anything to interrupt your precious sleep, “author”. You know, those thousands of oh-so-fruitful hours you spend lying around getting absolutely everything accomplished, “author”, while your tiny “author” brain ferments and your useless “author” muscles atrophy.

Me: I will skullfuck you with a strap-on.

At this point, the Viking I married rolls over and goes, “hrmph? Je-zus. Crazy fuckin’ …” and flees the bedroom,  lumbering off in search of coffee and probably a good divorce lawyer. I look at the alarm clock again, this time fumbling for my glasses. What I’d thought was a 9 is a 4. It’s 4:45 am. Lesson learned: talking aloud to one’s muse is acceptable only if a) one is alone or one is not overheard and b) it’s not before dawn.

So now I’m cleaning the house and …well, no I’m not, am I? I’m sitting on my ass, blogging. Such a big fat liar. But I will clean the house soon (no, I won’t. I never do) and deal with all this Christmas aftermath (nope, won’t do that either, I’m playing World of Warcraft all fucking day today) and then maybe I’ll let Cedric talk to me about his new idea. Because he has a point: the neighbour wouldn’t like Marnie any more than the dog would like Harry, and if I introduce these facts early, then when the labradoodle returns to their front step as a pestilent, undead goop-factory on a leash, without its doting owner–the implication being that somewhere the owner is dead or also zombified–the scene has more context and substance, the relationship has more history. It feels more like “oh yeah, that dog” than “Marnie has neighbours?” … yes, Cedric has a point. Damn him.

ps. Exciting news! I have another Taking It to the Grave interview all lined-up … I know, it’s been a while since I did one. But it was worth the wait, because this time, it’s the #pubwrite-infamous Mythcop, aka Jesse James Freeman, who has released his highly-anticipated novel Billy Purgatory: I Am The Devil Bird; since he’s afraid I might put him in a headlock and give him noogies while talking mushy baby-talk at him, he’s kindly agreed to let me interview him. HOORAY!

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto in no way drugged, coerced, threatened or blackmailed Mr. Freeman to agree to the upcomming interview … but reserves the right to do so in future, should Mr. Freeman prove to be less pliable than her former vict–er, guests. *grin*)

(*artsy note: the portrait of Mephistopheles was painted by artist James J. Himsworth 3, which totally sounds like a made-up name. OK, I’m only saying that cuz I’m jealous that he can paint. Also, that he has that number in his name, and I don’t. I only have stupid letters. There’s not even a symbol. Fuckin’ letters. I’m going to start calling myself AJ8 A2alto … my tag line will be “she is not the droid you are looking for” …)

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