A writer’s greatest resource, in my opinion, is the awesome clout of human brain power–millions of furiously-blinking electric impulses zinging along nerves and neurons, dancing in a heady soup (heh, I said head) of hormones, fed precise doses of cerebral chemicals of near-magical influence, apt to spill glory in a blink, surging with readiness like a cock at a strip club. I do not refer now to the writer’s own brain, no. I’m talking about the collected pool of human knowledge and behaviour available to the writer through connecting with other people. Watch. Listen. Ask questions.

Writers are, as a species, first-class listeners and observers. In a crowd, you will find a writer sitting back, silently training their phenomenal focus and attention on other humans, as though the gathering were an interesting zoo exhibit, noting behavioural quirks, body language (our stare is not in any way lascivious, she lied smoothly), actions and reactions, picking up dialogue (also known as eavesdropping). Watch. Listen. Ask questions. That guy over there scribbling on his napkin? Unless he’s taking down the phone number of some hot chick he just met, he’s a writer, and he just noticed how you clandestinely wriggle-scratched your junk; likely he’s trying to come up with a better term for it than wriggle-scratch, and wondering if you’ve got crabs.

Many writers–like yours truly–are far less comfortable being noticed, than noticing. The VERY best information cannot be learned in a book, or school, or online course. The VERY best information is harvested from people, and once you’ve tapped those closest to you, you’re left with strangers: educated strangers, street-smart strangers … dangerous strangers?

Yep, I went there. You know I’m right. Some of the most terrifying criminals are scary for the simple fact that they’re clever and resourceful. All those little grey cells, zinging with incredible versatility, may be flipped over to take-or-be-taken by circumstance or biology … yet the fact remains, they have plenty to teach as well, if you’re brave enough. Watch. Listen. Ask questions. 

As a horror writer, I have no choice in that matter. I go where the subject matter leads me. In the past, this has lead me to some dark corners of the human psyche, where morality lines are a little (or a lot) blurry. I cannot afford to flinch or turn away. The best research is complete immersion, but when the subject pool gets too murky to plunge head-first, one must be prudent. Watch. Listen. Ask questions. I’ve watched some pretty horrible shit–things I wish I could un-see, pictures that made me reach for the brain bleach. Having read all I can get my hands on, in books and online, all that remains is to explore the predatory mind up close and personal. Ask questions (blerg). The way I see it, a close encounter can only benefit my knowledge pool, and I will not shrink away from it when it presents itself, which (if I’m real lucky and all goes as planned) should be any day now. My toes curl with nervous anticipation.

Until then, I seek to overcome my shy demeanor by seeking out new minds to question, forcing myself to not only watch/listen from afar but to reach out to them. That’s my challenge, as an introvert. 

 To that end, there are a myriad of suitable places to do this.  I think an ideal place in the region to watch/listen/ask questions of men in particular–although the female reactions in this place are also noteworthy–is a little place called Peppermints in Niagara Falls, Ontario. Peppermints is a strip club featuring male exotic dancers. Who (because this is Canada, and we Canadians are raging pervs) take it all off. All of it.

All. Nude. Male. Revue. *happy sigh*

Those are four very nice words. As a writer, I approve of those four words. Big check mark of approval, right here, in the air. They’re poetry, in fact, when placed side by side like that. Aren’t they lovely, girls?  And like I said before: as a writer, I’ll just be noting behavioural quirks (right) body language (uh hunh), actions and reactions (suuure I will). Hey, I might be required to do more than watch. I mean: maybe I’ll listen! To some heavy-on-the-bass heart-thudding music (nice save). Maybe I’ll harvest the company of one of these flexible athletic fellas and “ask questions”. Professional questions that could, somehow, sorta, maybe have something to do with a story. Cool, calm, intelligent questions, posed in a “writerly fashion”. I’m pretty sure that “writerly fashion” means no drool. I can manage that. (Riiiiight.)

Now, did I just write an entire blog today to justify my intention to go watch completely naked men dance on stage (yes) and maybe grind their hard, sweaty bodies against mine a little while I tuck fivers in their palms? (yes) Did I lay down a whole line of bullpuckey about watching, listening and asking questions as an excuse to ogle some strange? (oh, yes.) Would I do that? (Yes. Yes I would.) That’s borderline crapweasel of me. (Your point?)

OK, that’s exactly what I did. And you fell for it. I thought you knew me better than this. Brains? You thought I was writing about brains? ME? How could you have read all that without noticing that my mind is so far into the gutter that it couldn’t see daylight if I climbed to the top of the sludge pile and jumped up and down? 

Brains. Ha! Folks, I said “cock” and “strip club” in the very first sentence. Sillyheads.

Right! Now that we’ve determined I’m a total degenerate, and kind of a jerk, where’s your favourite place to watch/listen/ask questions? What are the worst questions you’ve ever had to ask? What are the best answers you’ve ever received?

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto is a bipolar biologist, bookseller-bookworm, stalker-eavesdropper, peeper/groper,  unrepentant pervert, amateur writer and professional doofus. Fair warning: if she asks to “harvest” you, she might be talking about your intellect … orrrrr she might be talking about selling your organs on the black market to pay for a Mini Cooper. )

Recently, I parcelled out bits and pieces of my inner self to a friendship fresh-plucked from the ether-tree. How new, you ask, (because apparently you’re super-nosy)? Let’s just say I’ve had riper pears in June, though maybe only Niagara soft fruit farmers will get that joke. Nonetheless, it went something like this: C’mere, lean in close to me … now, check these night vision goggles. See that tiny raw thing crouching in the dark alley? Nope, left. Yep, my soul. I trust you won’t plant yer boot there. That might really hurt.

Now, I might be a total goof, but I’m perfectly aware that people have a tendency to sting like red ants when they’re moody. What I did forget was how large a chink in my otherwise impenetrable armour I had revealed.  Dumbass that I am, I made things worse by merrily rolling through this big ole riled-up ant pile, flashing some soft sensitive spots like a nudist covered in mint jelly. OK, the mint jelly part might be silly. Raspberry perhaps–crimson suits me.

So, this morning, I rolled out of bed, poked my stinging chest and thought “who died?”, remembered that I’m a gigantic dillhole–fantastic!– and tried to minimize the impact of one frosty monosyllabic treatment (Frosty Monosyllabic Treatments available at your local spa for only 89.99–now with a free FreshMint Rinse) by pouring myself into a hot bubble bath, there to lurk hippo-like, with only my eyes showing above the water. And there I thought. And mused. Mulled just a bit. OK, it’s totally possible that I obsessed, a lot, but I’ll never tell.

AJ, you nudge, rapidly losing patience with my rambling, what the hairy ratfuck does this have to do with a short story?

Actually, it has a lot to do with a short story, Cursey McSwearsalot (also: how about a little compassion, sheesh, I’m grumpy and I’m tryin’ to milk it!). I was having trouble with the end of this story. This is only my second shortie, and it’s outside my regular genre–in that there’s no gore and sex. I’m not good at shorts yet (sounds like I have no summer fashion sense … and I don’t, so why correct it?)  Well, like any artist, I blew that sting massively out of proportion so I could put that friggin’ angst to work for me: damn right, I did. *flex* That’s “passion”, my friends … if by “passion” you mean “flights of lunacy.”

Of course, I am being silly. I’m a writer, I’m allowed to come unhinged randomly and without much provocation. I swear to you, that’s in the rule book somewhere.  Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t. You be sure to let me know, but please note: until I rebuild this one open spot in my normally iron-clad fortifications, I’m liable to pour the boiling pitch without asking “who goes there?”

Here be the  Shortie . Don’t expect zombies or goblins or perverts (oh my!) today. Like I said, this is a departure for me.  And don’t be afraid to take a flying leap, my sweet readers … where would writers be without our dreams?

(AJ Aalto dreams, and often … she daydreams about sun-warmed raspberries, and lilac trees, and quiet crypts, and poutine. She dreams about one of those things more than she should. Potatoes, gravy,  fat and cheese? Frankly, AJ cannot fathom how anyone wouldn’t dream of poutine, cuz that’s just kooky talk.)

There was a van parked across the street, a blue utility van with white lettering—Percy & Slade Windows & Siding—which was absurd, really, considering the only renovating Percy or Slade ever did involved realigning the bones of unlucky men. The old-fashioned park bench was wood and iron—as opposed to those awful vinyl ones the Greenies made from recycled pop bottles, Olivia thought, a nice touch for an urban strip—and moist from the afternoon rain.  Damp seeped through her black corduroys, yet she was made far more uncomfortable by the fleeting glances of the brunette sitting beside her. I’ll have to speak to Slade about not sending me fucking amateurs.  Olivia entered a number into her cell phone and held it to her ear without pressing send. The brunette unwrapped a bagel—cinnamon raisin, toasted, with butter—and proceeded to pick the raisins out and flick them to the pavement. Pigeons waddled and cooed at her feet, and Olivia thought, at least she’s wearing sensible shoes.  Liv said to the empty phone, her voice a soft British lilt, “Might I assume everything is in place?”  Cinnamon sans raisins frowned at the bagel as though it had offended her, and took a long look down Franklin street in the opposite direction. “Fell through.”  “You’re quite sure?” Liv tapped a fingernail against the hard plastic of the phone expectantly, tap tap tap.  “He won’t talk.” A paper cup of coffee appeared from her side, went to her lips, and disappeared again. “Won’t talk to Goldsmith, won’t talk to Pfeifer, won’t talk to me.”  “Your failure displeases me,” Liv told the silent phone, finally thumbing send. “Moreover, it will displease M. As will your use of names in public. Christ.” Percy picked up on the first ring without a hello. She informed him, “I need some glass replaced.”  There was no reply. Liv thought the silence was tainted by irritation. Then again, Mel Percy’s emotional range wasn’t that broad to begin with. He was usually dialed to don’t fuck with me, and only once had Olivia seen him brighten, briefly, to that’s not complete and total shit. She waited for the blue van move away from the curb, to take Franklin to 13th, beyond which she could see ModAgro International’s massive chrome and glass headquarters, Stuart Roth’s phallic surrogate thrust stiff and proud above the other buildings, struggling into a soft and yielding grey sky. She waited a further five minutes beside a woman who might have half an hour left to live—and 30 minutes was stretching it–wondering if Cinnamon Bagel had any idea.  Now I have to call M. And M will send AJ.  He always does. This had the potential to get ugly, fast; Liv was no longer sure she wanted a part in it.  When Liv finally did stand, sweeping a cascade of ash blonde hair back over her shoulder, she passed a brushing hand over her damp posterior with a grimace.  Bagel stopped chewing to offer up a simple, if muddled, “I’m sorry.”  Liv thought, Clueless.  Olivia was half a block away, waiting for the limo driver to open her door for her, when she heard the single pop, and caught in her peripheral vision the crumpling of a body off a park bench. She didn’t look back to see the dregs of the rookie’s coffee running into the storm drain. Checking her Tag Heuer, noting the late hour in Ireland , she ignored some citizen’s wailing alarm, and swung into the back seat.  In her natural accent, pure Quebecois, she told the driver, “Back to the Fairmont , s’il vous plait.” “Gonna hit traffic, Madam Pelletier,” he said. “Ostie de marde,” she muttered beneath her breath, texting M. His reply, despite the late hour, was immediate and concise: Pass off to AJ. “Be about a 50 minute drive,” the driver told her, avoiding her eyes in the rearview mirror.  Olivia slipped out of her Etienne Aigners and brought her bare feet up onto the seat, silk stockings sliding across cool leather. Putting her iPhone ear buds in, she cranked Vivaldi’s opera 7 concerto 7 in D minor, and waited a heartbeat for her serenity to return.  As it always did. To be continued …   That’s right, my faithful readers. As you might have guessed from the above, another evil author interview is in the works (and by that, I mean the interview is evil, not the author). Can you guess who it is? I’ll give you a hint: his last name rhymes with flu-row … which sounds like the last kinda boat you saw if transferred to the lazarettos in Venice in 1423, yes? You know, yersinia pestis … NEVERmind, I’ve drifted into geek territory now. Back to spy-chick! Coming soon, the curl-your-toes charming Al Boudreau will sit down with me (well, not literally with me, more’s the pity, cuz I’m a real sucker for that why-resist-me-I’m-harmless smile of his, not that I buy it for a heartbeat). Al and I (yes, Al and Allie) will discuss his political thriller In Memory of Greed, his coming plans—both writing and travel—and his views on the often odd life of a writer. And his thoughts on warm soda. And if he’s allergic to beestings, or has any scars on or around his junk—what?! Oh, don’t pretend you don’t wanna know, ya buncha pervs. Then, while his resistance is down, I’ll go in for the kill. My plan is a thing of beauty … if by “beauty”, you mean “warped and puerile”.                       (Witness the “I’m harmless” smile ^ Not buyin’ it!)  In any case, I look forward to prying his secrets from him. Some sympathy may be in order, since he’s a sweet, sweet man indeed, and I hate to have to rough him up. No, sympathy for me, not for him! It breaks my iron-clad heart to hunt him down like this. But I’d do anything for my readers, dontchaknow?  He’s given my accomplices the slip, but don’t you worry: AJ’s been called to the task. *smiles innocently, hauling the business end of a .357 Walther P22 to eye level* And once I’ve set my sights on someone, well, you should know by now: I always hit my target center of mass. Just hope I don’t chip a nail …

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto’s evil interviews will continue until she is no longer amused with the free-for-all torture of Indie authors–this could take years. AJ can often be found lurking on Twitter in #pubwrite. To flush her out of hiding, just say something filthy and wait for the inevitable smart-assed reply, or say the words “I have a confession to make” and wait for the “OMG tell me now, what did YOU DO?!”)

Remember all those times you thought something was missing from a story, and you realized that something was sex, then the author surprised you and threw some in, but it turned out to be really really bad? Like “I want to plant my baby-seeds in your hose-soaked lady garden” bad? No? Apparently, you and I are not reading the same books. *checks the title* Sorry … Landscaping For Dummies.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sex scene in a novel—if it makes sense for the characters to be doin’ it, and if it’s very well written. I’m gonna say that again. Listen for it closely:

 If it makes sense for the characters to be doin’ it.

And if it’s very well written.

 And. Not or.

Very. Not sorta. Not kinda.

Sex is a funny thing. Not  funny ha-ha, but funny strange … unless you’re unfortunate enough to be doin’ it with me; sex with yours truly could pass for an episode of the Stooges, complete with head-bonking and eye-poking.

<Ah, I see you’ve chosen to bed AJ. Good luck with alllll that>

 I will admit, arousal can crop up at odd times. Like when you’re waiting for an oil change, for example, and the guy in the waiting area beside you smells wholly fantastic, and you sneak a peek at his hands—those big, strong, powerful hands that could probably reduce a woman to a quivering pile of helplessness in under ten seconds—and you wonder what they’d feel like if you just inched your fingers over and … *ahem* For example. That never happened. I never get my oil changed. Though it’s sounding like maybe I should, cuz while that may not be the most ideal situation in which to become aroused, at least it makes  sense.                                                                                                    

On the other hand, if you’re on a runaway barge going 89 mph down some white water rapids, ducking behind a battered suitcase, which is your only protection against the bullets zinging past your head, almost certainly getting laid is not your primary focus. If it is, relax: you’re probably a guy. No woman in this situation would even remember she has a vagina, save to fleetingly wonder if she could hide in it (No? Just me, then? Righty-O). Which is why a straight sex scene in the midst of battle/attack or the inevitable “everyone’s dyin’ all around us, but let’s pause for some bowchickawowow” in the horror novel/movie is, in my opinion, not realistic . The exception to that is: if you’re under attack and you’re holed-up safely in a bunker. Then, bring it on! Oh hell yes, bunker sex is a go!

When the time is right for two characters, the decision comes down to: how much do I show? How far do I take this?

Do I begin it, and do the tasteful fade to black? Do I shut the door? Sure, that’s a perfectly fair option, and a lot of the time, the story doesn’t require further detail. Sometimes, knowing they bonded in an intimate fashion was the point, and having been implied, that’s enough. It can be done classy. Yeah, that’s right … I’m a classy, classy bitch, I could do sophisticated if I wanted to (probably?).

The alternative to the fade-to-black is an interesting menu of options. Do I go full-out? Wellll, maybe … if you’re careful not to sound like a crack whore slapping her fanny at a slow-trollin’ car at the corner of Geneva St. and Welland Ave at 4 o’clock in the morning (Johns and/or arresting officers in the St. Catharines area looking for action: you. are. welcome). I prefer reading a little sex, as opposed to a hint and then the classic literary door-slam. But that’s just me. I’m nosy: I like to know everything about a character. I happen to be of the opinion that sex is a fascinating window into people’s personalities; you can learn an enormous amount from how a person reacts under the duress of an unexpected seduction, or in the pursuit of their desires, or in mutual mad monkey-lust. And I have said this before: you’re putting a fully-rounded person on the page when you write a character, and every person–from sex addict to coldest fish–has some sort of sexual personality traits. Even the complete lack of sexuality is, in itself, a sexuality trait.

Say you’re like me (caution: one should never say that). Say you think it’s important to include an actual sex scene in your novel, during which you will actually show something. Writing sex is not for the faint of heart: it’s for the brave, and the foolhardy perhaps, or for those with little or no shame (guess which one I am? Wrong–I’m all three). So, how do you write good sex?

First of all, you have some. Honey, you ain’t writing no convincing sex if all you’ve got on a Friday night is aFleshlight and a tube of Super Lube (side note: I’m not making that up, there’s a fake vagina in a can called a Fleshlight. It’s hilarious–but I’m not linking it). Grab a partner and do some hands-on research.  If you don’t have a partner, go to your local Starbucks, order the most pretentious beverage on the menu, add random uber-specific boosts and shots and powders, then ask the irritated barista if you can make it up to him/her by practicing tantric sex moves with them … no, it willwork: just ask that blond barista with the goatee at the mall–ooooh, I’ve said too much. OK, maybe propositioning strange coffee shop employees isn’t your thing, for whatever reason *rolls her eyes grandly at your prudishness* though I can’t for the life of me imagine why not. What are some alternatives?

Well, you read some. Other writers have mastered the art of writing sex. Better yet, some write it poorly; it’s out there to read, and you should, if only to get a feeling for what not to do. You want to read a whole lot of it, to see what sounds right to you and what makes you laugh so hard that tears pour down your cheeks (for example, you don’t ever wanna write that he “filled every crevice” because that makes the average reader go, “EVERY crevice? REALLY? Wait, d’ya mean …*scratching forehead* between her toes, too? Behind her ears? Is a nose a “crevice”? Dude, that’s a lot of man-spackle”). Go ahead, pull up yer superhero Underoos, sally forth and infiltrate your local book store, and buy some erotica. Research, my valiant friend, is not going to kill you. The politely-controlled “I’m pretending not to notice you’re buying paper porn, nor am I looking you in the face” stare of the book store cashier isn’t going to kill you either, though depending upon your personality, it may feel like a part of you is dying.

Some of you are saying, “but AJ, I can get erotica online. Easily. And for free.” Yes, I reply tersely, but then you will have denied me the opportunity of causing you personal discomfort. Hello? Have we met?

“Also,” you tell me, rather cheekily, “I don’t need to read. My sex life is research enough. It’s spice-ay.”  That’s wonderful, I congratulate. But it can always be improved-upon, no matter how spice-ay it may be (and btw you sound like a lying dillhole when you say it like that, cuz if it were truly spicy, you’d be too exhausted from multiple orgasms to stretch the word to spice-ay… in point of fact, you’d clip the word. It’d be spi–zzzzzzzzz.)

Experiment, read, think about what’s logical for both the male character and the female character (or if a gay scene, what makes sense for whom), consider the personalities that you’ve already laid-out (ha! I said laid) . Push a few boundaries but cautiously, or you’ll end up making your readers spit their tea–and no, that’s not a coy euphemism. Test things out! When you’re reading erotica and a certain word tickles your hoo-hah unexpectedly–and it will–jot it down.  Make a list of what turned you on, and what didn’t. Think about that list from one of your character’s perspectives. Now, apply a cool damp wash cloth to the back of your neck, breathe deeply, and do it again. And again. Again. More … more! More! Oh God, baby soon ohyespleasepleasePLEASEDON’TSTOP–*gasp* sorry.  What were we talking about? It couldn’t possibly have been … it was? Shit, what was I thinking? Well, I blame you; that’ll work nicely for me.

Mimic reality, then make it one notch better: that’s your job, after all, whether you’re a horror writer or any other kind or writer, and whether or not you write a sex scene. And before you rush out in the name of research and buy a Drilldo (I’m not making that up either, there is a product called the Drilldo, and it’s exactly what you think it is) you should probably note that your sex life does not necessarily suck if it in no way resembles something you’ve read in erotica, seen in porn, or in the Saw movie franchise, or that strange amalgamation: Porn Saw.

I hope I made that up just now.  

I very much hope Porn Saw’s not a thing.

This is me refusing to Google it to find out.

Please, oh please, do not tell me what you find if you do.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto does write sex scenes in her novels; if she didn’t, there would be NO excuse for the MASSIVELY RIDICULOUS amount of time she spends staring off into space fantasizing various unlikely scenarios, up to and including her post-apocalyptic duty to trade her hoarded SPF900 sunscreen supply for orgasms with the hunky-yet-tragically-shirtless male survivors, and the sci-fi variation: AJ waiting for her transport home from the Farload Quadrant on Space Station Delta V-69, stuck with a platoon of  horny space cowboys with a whoooole lotta time on their hands. Wait–is a group of space cowboys a “platoon” or a “pride” or a “troop” or … WHAT? I might need to know!)