“What the hell are you doing?”

These are six words I hear on a weekly basis, if not more often. See, I’m not one of those writers who sit quietly and let the scenes brew on their own. I don’t turn off the lights and lay on my bed and listen to Air Supply while the visions form. I have to walk and talk ’em out. I have to speak the dialogue, often before it goes to the paperspace of my screen. I rant, and wave my arms, and fake punches at myself in the mirror (What? Oh, puhlease, as if you don’t).

If actors have method acting, during which they fully immerse themselves in their character, I guess I have method writing, because putting myself bodily into a scene (even when there is no scene yet) works for me. As a for instance, my main character has a heavy espresso habit: Marnie fully intends to pull a de Balzac and die of caffeine poisoning. I myself am not even a coffee drinker, never mind espresso. I drink the occasional tea … if by “occasional” you mean “14-fucking-cups-a-day”. OK, maybe I’m heading for a de Balzac myself. It occurred to me a while ago that it might help me connect to my main character if I temporarily developed some of her likes and dislikes. I went to Starbucks and ordered a double espresso–and nearly died. The barista was mildly insulted by my coughing and chest thumping. I quickly decided Marnie does not like Starbucks and instead brews her own espresso. I looked up the finest kind, ordered some, spent a stupid amount of money on a brewer (I’m all impulse, baby, money is irrelevant until days later when I go, shit that was a lot of money!)and experimented with it. Result: I suck at pulling espresso, but I bet my MC is a pro, and even my shittyass attempt tastes a helluva lot better than Starbucks. Also: it earned me a big ole:

“What the hell did you do?”

I’m so misunderstood *grin*.

Method writing does, sadly, get me some odd looks. I’m not all that stealthy. I get busted. I’ve lost my sense of shame, for the most part. I’m OK with my friends and family catching me talking to myself, or other drivers seeing me mouthing lines of dialogue at the red lights. I’m a writer, it’s perfectly fine for me to be demented.

I do wonder … how many other writers do this? Do you get up from your desk and do the angry imaginary door slam as your main character marches out on another? Do you throw a glass against the wall to watch the shards fly so you can better describe their arc through the air? Do you hang a dead pig in your barn until it blows up with maggots and then shoot it with a pellet gun to see how far the maggots spray? No! Right! Of course not, heh heh. I don’t do that either, that would be … hoo boy … that would be really crazy. *avoids eye contact* Also, it would have garnered me a huge:

“What the bloody hell are you doing NOW?”

If your character has an accent, do you attempt it too? If he/she speaks a whole other language, do you learn the bare minimum, or do you learn all the basics, and then annoy ppl by teaching them snippits they didn’t ask to be taught? Do you give your characters music preferences that you don’t share, and then develop an accidental appreciation for them? How close do you get to your characters? Do you make a conscious choice to make your MCs much different than you, or do you try and write them from your own perspective?

How “method” is your writing?

(Author’s note: I have been informed that my future guest blogger, miss Heather Goldie, very much enjoys my Evil Author interviews, and intends to turn the tables on me this week. I have only the foggiest clue what she intends to ask me in this interview, and I’m a wee bit scared, but turnabout is fair play. Here’s hoping I don’t completely embarrass myself.)

I stand in the shower.

This is where alllll the ideas happen.

I stand naked in the shower, talking to myself.

OK, not all the ideas happen here. But a conservative estimate would place the number at around 84.3%.

I stand naked in the shower, talking to myself. Again. And the ideas are happening. Again. (Salt. Earth) Hot water is beating on the back of my skull, matting wet hair along the nape of my neck, and creative juices–in my brain, you pervs–are flowing. The problem with this is …

I don’t want the ideas to come and muddle up my headspace. Tomorrow, I have final edits to start finishing, if that makes sense. (Salt) I have things to clean up, writing-wise, that must be done. I have chosen July 22nd as my soft launch date, the date I upload my first novel Touched to ebook format and go from unpublished author to published indie author, something I’m hyper/excited/scared to death about. My main beta reader has given me until Friday (salt. earth)  June 10th to get her the last copy she’ll read for me before that time. ONLY THEN can I set the damn book aside and focus on fresh ideas and new plots and characters moving forward.

But the ideas (salt) don’t stop. And WHAT SALT? WHAT EARTH? I pause in the act of lathering shampoo into my scalp with my fingertips and scowl at the tiles in front of my face, beige tiles, and the little shelf upon which rests a nearly-empty bottle of Neutrogena Rainbath Body Wash and a buncha lady razors. What friggin’ salt? Iwonder. What kind of stupid idea is this, now?

No answers from that jumbled ether of my creative center, which is still being stimulated by the drumming of extra-hot water on the cervical spine and the base of my skull. Maybe I should be facing the shower. Maybe that’s my problem. I turn around and let the hot water river across my forehead and cheeks, opening my mouth the breathe through the spray. (Salt. Earth.) What the fuck does that have to do with anything?

OK, my brain says, as my idle hands start shampooing again. Salt and Earth. What do we know about these two things? Sodium chloride, NaCl, halite, yadda yadda. Dead Sea? Do my characters want to go to the Dead Sea? Hmmm. Chaucer, 1386: “Salt of the Earth” was/is an expression … it means someone is reliable, I think. The exact opposite of yours truly. Hmmm. To “salt the earth” like Scipio sacking and salting Carthage. (Salt. Earth. Zach Galifianakis is fucking hilarious) Welp, I don’t see how any of those things could possibly apply to my books, but OK OK, lemme think! I rinse the suds out of my hair, wondering if “salt” and “Earth”  and “Zach Galifianakis being hilarious” are my only ideas today, although that last one isn’t so much an idea as it is a fact.

What do I do with the ideas now? I can do what I’ve promised to do.

From now until launch, I will not be entertaining new ideas. *twitch* No, really. I will be jotting them down on recipe cards and throwing them in my Idea Box, which is not at all like my Lady Box. The Lady Box will not be given a description. You. Are. Welcome. The Idea Box is an old-timey recipe box with a flap lid hand painted in a 70s style kitchen motif, with classic olive green and burnt umber and yellow flowers, or squiggles that are supposed to be floral-ish? I should probably keep the box in the bathroom (the IDEA Box!) so I can thrust one arm out of the shower and grab a pencil (for the IDEA Box, people!), dripping all over the place (with my arms, drippy arms! Come on!) while I scribble and get soap in my eyes. Yeah, that sounds like a brilliant plan.

Meanwhile, ideas (salt) keep rambling around inside (earth) my head and though I try to focus on editing, the process (pretzels) what? … the process is slowed considerably by the damn (salt in the pretzel bag) gears turning in amongst my grey cells (all that salt in the bottom of the bag) and eventually, I am going to have to pay attention (salt them to the Earth) to the … what?? What does THAT mean?

The box will be getting full (the i-de-a box, omg you perverts!) by the time July 22nd comes. While I ignore Book 2 in the quest for tightening Book 1, ideas that could very well show up in Book 3 wait to pounce on me while I’m busy with the soap. All right, that time I meant to be pervy. But the new ideas go in the pile! I’m not gonna read ’em, not gonna touch ’em, not gonna think about ’em. *twitch* (salt those fucking zombies back into the Earth) WAIT!! Using pretzel salt to bind a zombie back into the Earth? Oh hell, no, that’s sillyass shit, right there, that’s sooooo up Marnie’s alley, that’s … going … in …the …*tsk* box. Dammit.

 What do you do when ideas for future books interfere with your WIP?

 (Editor’s note: AJ Aalto is an easily–ooOO look, the new Playgirl magazine came!–distracted woman … that is all. OK I’LL PUT ‘EM IN THE BOX, I PROMISE! No, don’t get the clown wig, don’t get the clown wig, doooooon’t–!!)

(Author’s note: Some time soon, my dear friend Heather will be guest blogging here in the crazyass land of AJ, dodging pickleforks to bring you … something. I have no idea what. I’m scared. I’m sure it’ll be fine–maybe. Probably. Or not. To be continued …)

I’m just gonna say it: all kids are retarded. They are! And you know it! Yes, “retarded” is a totally un-PC term (do spank me for it later) and some very kindhearted liberal types want us to stop using it, and eventually I will, because I’m not a total asswipe. I have nothing against the mentally challenged. I may be mentally challenged. But for the last little while until it becomes unforgivably rude, I’ll use it. I’m a wordsmith, and it’s a fun word. OK? Besides, I’m not saying it doesn’t apply to me. I, who (according to all empirical evidence) was never a kid, who was born a 7 pound 30yr old capable of peering at the delivery nurses with utter disdain, who spent my childhood as a 3 foot tall 40yr old kicking my parent’s butts at Scrabble and Balderdash … even a child who was never a child did or said something during those years–likely a lot of somethings–that made the grown ups stop in the act of spooning soup in their mouths and think “holy shit, that kid makes my head hurt.”

My kids do this to mealllll the time, more so when they were little, but still, on occasion, I feel that ever-growing wrinkle between my eyebrows pucker hard and that spot the psychics call the Third Eye (cuz psychics need an extra eye to watch you fuck their brains up) starts to throb.

Today I thought I’d share some of the surprising Kid Facts I’ve learned from my children. I can’t make this shit up. Well, I could. But anyone who knows me, and knows my weirdo children, will know I haven’t had to; whether by nature or nurture, I have managed to raise some odd little beings … allow me to introduce them.

Little Miss is going to be a SciFi writer by the sounds of it, as she has schooled me (and my family and friends) many a time in scientific “facts”. “Facts”, she says with a disparaging scowl, that I should have learned when I was at Brock University becoming a “mad scientist”. She says I have three jobs: working at the book store, writing, and being a lunatic. Motherhood isn’t a job, she says, it’s a game we play with our genes; for 11, she’s alarmingly perceptive. Also, did I mention she’s part animal? She spends more time loping around on all fours (with frightening agility, I might add) than she does on two feet. Now, I have been known to drink to the point of insensibility, I don’t think I was impregnated by a wolfman 11 years ago … though conclusive evidence certainly does support this hypothesis, should anyone care to make the claim.

My boy, little D (AKA Sputtergotch, AKA Angelbutt) weighs about as much as a box of matches now, but evidently will be a 600 pound gun totin’ chocolate addicted pilot. Or a musclebound soccer thug. Or a psychic-priest-pimp, if his current interests hold true.  I’m not particularly religious myself, but I’ve taught my children the “heavenly” idea of life after death for the same reason I carry on with the Santa thing: because magical thinking is fun while it lasts. Little D has taken this a step further. He tells me what his last lifetimes were, and what God wants him to do this time around: He says God wants him to become a fireman … so he can set fires. When I informed him that firemen put out fires, he corrected me sternly. Not to be outsmarted by an 8 yr old, I looked it up to show him. Turns out the word “fireman” originated as a job title for those men who started fires in fireplaces at an inn or tavern. But he couldn’t have known that from, like, a past life or anything … right? Heh. Heh.

Here are a few wonderful things I’ve been taught by my wee ones, who are no longer quite so wee, and who continue to inspire me.

Lesson 1: Pigs Don’t Have Teeth

(at the breakfast bar, over bowls of  Honey Nut Cheerios)

Me: Honey, stop making that awful, rude noise and eat your cereal.

Little Miss: But mom, I’m not a girl, I’m a boy today.

Me: What does that matter?

LM: Boys are allowed to be gross.

Me: Not at my table, they’re not.

Sputtergotch: I need muscles bigger-bigger like Dad. Do Cheerios build the mostest muscle?

Me: Since you’ve already poured half a liter of milk on ’em, I’m gonna go with yes! Now eat.

Little Miss: Fine, I’m not a girl or a boy, I’m a pig.

Me: Judging by the state of your bedroom, this appears to be a fair assessment. Finish up and go brush your teeth, please.

LM: But pigs don’t have teeth!

Sputtergotch: Ya, cuz when you eat bacon you don’t see teeth in it, do you?

Both children look at me like I might be crushingly stupid. No good can come from trying to explain the techniques of the modern butcher, here, so I am left rubbing my forehead and wishing there was Bailey’s Irish Cream on my Cheerios.

 Lesson 2: Temperature Controls Noise

(this past February, a still frosty morning, getting in the car to drive to school)

Little Miss: Mom, listen.

Me: *stops scraping windshield, listens*

LM: Wait, don’t even breathe! *holds imperious hand up for silence* …. I thought so. It’s too cold for sound today. *gets in the car with a sage nod*

 How cold would that be, exactly? Like 700 degrees below zero? One wonders how we survived it …

Lesson 3: Love Is In The Air

(driving home from early-morning Tim Horton’s run)

Little D: Mom, I know why the ladies love me.

(It took me a solid minute to swallow back what threatened to come out as a full belly laugh)

Me: Oh? Ladies love you, eh?

D: (sighing like a man overburdened) Yes. They all do. All the time.

Me: And why’s that, bud?

D: Because girls love boys, and boys love girls.

Me: Oh, I see.

D: AND boys can love boys and girls can love girls. That’s all the types of love there is.

Me: Do you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend?

D: Boys climb buildings with their bare hands and play soccer and build muscles playing Bayblades. That’s not for loving.

Mom: Hunh. Pardon me while I attempt to wrap my brain around your intrepid brand of  logic, babe.

D: It’s OK. You’re just slow.

Me: Gee thanks. So do you have a girlfriend, then?

D: Are you kidding? *goggles at his mother in the rear-view mirror, horrified* Girlfriends are a’sponsibility!

Me: They’re WHAT?

D: A’sponsability! Except on Balentine’s Day … then they’re just a’spensive.

While I choked on my tongue, it occurred to me that this child has been having deep chats about girls and/or money with his father again.

 Lesson 4: Will Pimp Mom For Chocolate

Little D: Mom, for my birfday I want a chocolate bar just like yours and maybe I’ll share it.

Me: Oh, maybe, eh? Nice of you, after you ate 3/4 of my Toblerone.

D: And I want mine biggerbiggerbigger than yours.

Me: Yeah, well, we’ll see.

D: I want one big as our house. How much does that big of chocolate bar cost at the store, Mom?

Me: After shipping and handling? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

D: Soooo … we just have to wait for pay day, right?

Me: *snort-laughs* I’d have to work a few more shifts at work, bud. Or get a sugar daddy. Or a pimp.

D: Well …. can you call today?

Me: Call where?

D: Work. Or the pimp store. You really need one of those before my birfday.

Nice to know my son thinks I could make enough as a hooker in one week to buy him a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar chocolate bar. Even if I could swing 3 or 4  johns per hour, 24 hours in a day, times 7 days, that’s 168 hours in the week times a conservative estimate of 3 men that’s 504 guys a week, into 250k, I’d still have to charge … sweet Jesus, why the fuck am I doing this math?!

Lesson 5: Multi-Shooter Guns

(back home taking off our snowy boots)

D: I want a three-gun for my birfday too.

Me: What’s a three-gun, Angelbutt?

D: You know, the gun with three shooters.

Me: So, a tipsy gun.

D: It’s called a three-gun. There’s one with five shooters too.

Me: That would be a drunk gun.

D: No, it’s a five-gun. Guns don’t just have one shooter y’know.

Me: This is news to me. Tell me, in your world, what are shooters?

D: Where the balls come out.

Me: Trust me, son. Men don’t need shooters for the balls to come out.

D: Yes, they do (uber-serious). And they’re not balls, Mom, they’re called bullets.

Me: Thanks for clearing that up, Teach. Don’t know what I’d do without you.

D: Don’t you write stories with guns? You should know about bullets.

Me: I’ll get right on that.

D: Can I have a for-real three-gun?

Me: Why, are ya pullin’ a bank job?

D: Youhave a for-real gun.

Me: I do? Wow, if you can find it, you can totally have it. Be sure to write mommy from prison.

D: Mom, you make no sense.

M: I make no dollars either, I thought that’s why you’re pulling the bank job for me.

D: When I get upstairs, I’m gonna build a’ eight-gun! That’s the most you can build. Guns can’t have more than eight shooters.

Me: You could shoot eight Webkinz at once! Oooh, woe to the stuffies!! Who will suffer my son’s unholy wrath?

D: Mom, why would I build a hole-y-raft? That would sink.

The poor boy wandered off thinking his mother knows nothing about physics–which is a fair assumption–to build deadly weapons out of Lego blocks and skulk around my bedroom looking for a “for-real” gun, though no one in their right mind would ever allow me to own a gun.

 Lesson 6: Holy Sex!

Little Miss: So, Mom, Mary was married to Joseph, riiiiight?

Me: My best answer to that would be: anything’s possible.

Little Miss: And married people have sex a lot, riiiiiiight?

D: Jenny said sex!

Me: Yeah, I heard it. She also said “a lot” … and while both induced toe-curling horror coming from the mouth of my 11 yr old, I also find both to be hysterical, so I’m gonna let it go.

LM: Why do they call her the virgin Mary?

Me: Honey, I’m so not the one to answer Bible questions. Maybe they weren’t married. Maybe she was frigid. But really, to get all the facts, wouldn’t you have to ask Mary?

D: Like fly to Mary’s house and just ask her *nodding as if this makes perfect sense* I can probably fly a plane real-real faster without even learning.

Me: No, but you could crash a plane real-real faster without even learning, Angelbutt. 

LM: My point is: it makes more sense that Joseph was the secret father of Jesus.

Me: I can’t say any more things now. *agnostic throws hands up in careful surrender* And please don’t say that around your grandparents.

LM: Well why would Mary cheat on Joseph and have sex with God?

Me: (gobsmacked, stammering) Because … God was really smooth?

LM: Oh. *lightbulb-moment face* Cuz God invented sex.

Me: Uh …

LM: So he’s the best at it.

Me: No! Shit–what?

D: Mom, you said a bad word.

LM: I get it. *crooked grin of someone who has figured out one of life’s dirty secrets* God’s the mastah playah.

 Me: Welp, I’m goin’ to hell.

D: You can see Mary there, cuz she cheats and that’s real bad, right mom?

LM: Derek, she gave God sex. That means he’ll do anything to rescue her. Like in the movies.

Me: *pointing with alarm* You watch too much TV, young lady!

LM: Everyone knows how guys are, mom. Major duh.

Me: Please stop melting mommy’s brains. Please stop melting mommy’s brains ….

It’s a damned good thing I have kids to teach me things like: God’s got serious moves–his real identity might be Lance Romance, Captain of the SS Swinging Dick– that guns always must have more than one shooter for their “balls” but no more than eight, that I’m little more than a chocolate mule, that temperature dictates sound on a frigid suckhole of a February morning, that as long as you screw around with a diety with a white knight complex you’re 100% safe from harm or hell, that there are 4 types of love but you can’t love someone who plays soccer or Bayblades, and that pigs–and bacon, and presumable ham and pork chops–don’t have teeth. Well, Amen to alllll that, then.

(AJ Aalto is not the best choice to parent two children, but does the very best she can with what she’s been given.

She appreciates the vast learning opportunities that parenthood offers. She secretly wishes she could press pause on her kid’s lives, so they stop growing up so fast. Also, she secretly wishes she could press mute on their mouths while out in public, because hearing her own words come out of their mouths–“But mom, I thought you said Mr. K the gym teacher was cute-but-stupid!”–often makes her see little black stars.)