After reading my last blog, my husband said (casually and quite foolishly) “You should blog about what scares the pants off a horror writer’s spouse. Give the world a picture of what it’s like to be married to a …” He bit his tongue, smiling easily. “Writer. Like you.”

 I can accommodate his wishes, sassy as they may be. It was three weeks ago, the last time I tore asunder my husband’s personal fortifications and brought him in a quivering heap to his knees. I think he’s got some grey hairs from the event. It went a little something like this …

 “Babe,” he said, zipping his laptop case and checking his iPhone messages. “I’m gonna be late tonight.”

“Oh I see …” I put down my tea. “But not late-late, though, right?”

“It’s possible.”

“Like, ABBA-punishment late?”

He groaned. “Not that. Come on, babe, gimme a break.”

I fluttered my lashes, grinning a warning.

“I’ll try to be home before you go to bed …”

“You’ll try?” I clarified, and began to hum softly.

“… but it looks like I’m going to have to rebuild the whole damn server—“

I wound up and belted out: “One of is crying, one of us is lying, in my lonely bed!”

He slumped with a long-suffering sigh and a dying moose sound, a drawn out uuuunnnnnnggggh.

 “Staring at the ceeeeeeeiling!” I raised my voice a full octave. “Wishing she was somewhere else insteeeead!”

“Woman!” he pleaded.

 “One of us is lonely, one of us is only, waiting for a caaaaallllll.”

“Whaddya want, money? Blood? A kidney?”

“Sorry for herself! Feeling stupid! Feeling small! Wishing she had never left at aaaaalllll.”

“That’s it!” He came forward in a rush. “Come here, you.”

I danced away to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, lifting my voice to the rafters, flinging my arms wide. Before I could get another word out, he crushed me face-to-chest in his bear hug.

“NEFFER LEF’ A’ AWWWWWLL!” I wailed, smothered by his abs. He’s that tall.

He tightened his hold until the fight went out of me. “All done?”

I nodded, a lie.

“ABBA-ed out?”

Again, my nose wriggled around against his rumbling diaphragm. “I’m sorry you had to experience that,” I coughed as he released his titan grip. “But you brought it on yourself.”

“Maybe if you could fall asleep without a man in your bed, it wouldn’t be an issue?”

“Maybe you should hire a man to sleep beside me when you can’t make it home in time?”

One massive dark eyebrow shot up comically. “Oh, really!”

I just grinned, and dodged from his grasp. “Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight! Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows awa—ack!!”

 And now, having had a naked, honest taste of the torture and torment my battle-ready husband is subjected to, the hourly peril he faces, the hurdles he so tirelessly vaults, shouldn’t someone knight the poor bastard already?

In this first entry to Old Words, New Light, I offer you (drum roll, please) cumberworld. 

What a fantastic old word–cumberworld–softly rounded, laden with nuances of dark burden and undertones of melancholia. Jeffrey Kacirk of Forgotten English fame tracked the word back to Robert Nare’s Glossary (of) the Works of English Authors 1859 and the definition: “That which is only a trouble, or useless burthen to the world.” Kacirk also offered the following 1593 poem by Michael Drayton entitled Shepherd’s Garland:

“A cumberworld, yet in the world am left,

A fruitless plot, with brambles overgrown,

Mislived man of my worlds joy bereft,

heartbreaking cares, the offspring of my moan.”

Cumberworld, a charming antique word which I think ought to be resuscitated and rejuvinated, painted into prose with the careful, affectionate brush strokes of those logophiles and wordsmiths who share my desire to salvage beautiful words that may be falling by the wayside. I ask you: why say “useless crapheap” when you could say “cumberworld”? *grin*

For more lovely disappearing words, please see Jeffrey Kacirk’s: http://www.forgottenenglish.com/

Frequent visitors to my home office (or, as my impertinent family likes to call it, “the dining room”) will be familiar with my wall of horror: a large cork board upon which 2D victims of my amusement are impaled with thumb tacks. Perhaps not the best preprandial artwork to peruse. Also: the reason we don’t eat in the “dining room”. There, I keep pictures and lyrics, sketches and quotations, scribbled notes and to-do lists that look like I stole them from Dahmer (fix “bone snapped wetly” … corpse would be dry by now). Of course, Dahmer only ever gave me nausea, a Clark Bar (“For Quick Energy!”) and some nightmares in the early ’90s. Just kidding, I don’t have nightmares.

I’ve been asked where I get my weird ideas. My knee-jerk reaction was: “Who you callin’ weird, you fuc–oh, that was a compliment? Ah. Right. I was going to say, focaccia … that old Italian verbal lovetap. I know it’s a bread, sillypants, where do you think they got the name? No-no, no need to Google it. Focaccia translates as: delicious friend. Yes it does. Trust me, I’m a writer, I’m paid to *know* these things.”

Today’s blog is in response to the question of Inspiration. (That’s right, I did it. I capitalized. Again, trust me. I am a writer. I can capitalize all day long if I want to. Sometimes, that’s all I do.) I guess people are worried about writers of horror and dark urban fantasy; if we can imagine such dreadful things, surely there must be … urges? Urges that may be dangerous to the general public. Urges that should be medicated. Can’t she write something nice, they wonder? Maybe there’s nothing nice inside her. <insert concerned head-cock, squinty eyes and lips pursed in thought> Maybe her brain is just a big rotted mat of evil. <insert sage nod>

I can’t answer to that; I’ve never seen my brain, not even when I roll my eyes way up ’til it hurts (warning: don’t do that, it hurts!) What I can say is this: I believe in the two wolves thing. You know, that old saying … inside every man are two wolves, dark and light, in constant battle for dominance. Who wins? The one you feed most often.

So I feed my dark wolf (raw organ meat, door-to-door salesmen). When I don’t, I honestly can’t write horror. I lose touch with it, then I feel like I’ve fallen between the cracks. Once I’m lost, it takes a long time to wriggle back into the grimy crypts and cold dank cellars of my imagination. And that’s where I belong, make no mistake about it. That’s where I come alive; my smile hardens, my eyes sparkle, my family hides the knives (no biggie, you can do a surprising amount of damage to door-to-door salesmen when you’re dual-wielding pickle forks); my Word Count tool heaves and shudders as it attempts to calculate, when I’ve been in dark places. Apparently, I have lots to say, some of it absurdly goofy, most of it gory, and not a page of it “nice“.

So how does this writer maintain that dark wolf? Music, sometimes. And the cork board o’ horrors, which is ever-changing. What’s on there today? 

• the lyrics for “the Derelict”. Sea shanties help me write. “Twas a cutless swipe or an ounce of lead/Or a yawning hole in a battered head … yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!“

• Pictures of mountain lakes north of Boulder, Colorado, where my imaginary town and lake (Ten Springs and Shaw’s Fist respectively) are located. Since I’ve only been to Colorado once, I live off  memory and travel guides and the interwebz. Part of me that loved Denver got stuck there; placing my first person character there made sense, felt right. On my outline for Book 3 in the series, she comes to visit my neck of the woods: St. Catharines, Niagara Falls, Thorold, Virgil, Welland. But she’ll always go home to Denver.

• A picture I cut out of the Sears Catalogue of that blond guy who’s been modelling for Sears for-fucking-ever. He’s wearing a suit. When I was 13, he was my pretend boyfriend whenever I catalogue-daydreamed. I have this fantasy where I run into the Sears Catalogue guy in the produce aisle of the grocery store and I drop my Freudian cucumber and sputter: “holy flaming twatwaffles, it’s YOU, it’s really YOU!”, at which point he freaks out, because other than a deranged stalker, who recognizes a fucking catalogue model? At least the fantasy never includes me dropping to baritone to croon into the cucumber-microphone: “Fifteen men of ’em stiff and stark/ Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”  That would just be weird.

• A side shot of Jude Law (Do I really need to explain that one, ladies? Do I need to explain the half naked cops and firemen? Do I need to explain why I drew chest hair betwixt their man-nips with my kid’s brown crayon? I didn’t think so.)

• sketches of fallen angels, Leviathan, graveyards, ravens, crypts, abandoned autopsy suites, old plantation houses, Mansard mansions like the house from Psycho, the Paris catacombs, London at night, primeval Serbian forests, sigils and symbols and magic alphabets and conjurings, sketches of Cthulu (with brown crayon chest hair. I couldn’t help myself!)

• various artists’ interpretations of Asmodeus, banker at the baccarat tables of hell. I shoved Him in my books, for as He doth command, so shall I–erm, because I was being creative. Yeah, that’s why. I’m a good girl. *tents fingertips and eyeballs the southwest corner of the room over her shoulder* “Ten fathoms deep on the road to Hell/Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!“

• Pictures of every classic vampire, and by classic, I mean “tear your throat out and leave you in a twitching heap” vamps, not “I’m too emo-vegan for my fair trade bamboo shirt, but maybe, if it’s all right with you, I might softly kiss the back of your hand? But only if you’re ubercomfortable!” vamps. My favourite shot: Bela Lugosi as Dracula, lurking around a corner in half-shadow. Oh, the pure creeptastic delight!

• Many pictures of the goblin shark Mitsukurina owstoni and the vampire squid Vampyroteuthis infernalis, the coolest real monsters currently residing on planet Earth, to my knowledge. I mean, besides clowns. 

• A handwritten lovenote I wrote to myself, to boost my self-esteem: “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have no faith in you.” It makes me happy.

• Latin words useful in binomial nomenclature, for inventing new plague names for zombie goodness in Book 2. I dig science when it allows me to explain preternatural goodies. I used the bacteria yersinia pestis, responsible for the Black Plague, and altered it to spread an undead plague through bites. Fun! (Ooops, is my nerd showing?)

• a list of possible (mythical? legendary? supposed? partially-logical?) ingredients for raising a zombie via Haitian necromancy. Because I enjoy blending the two types: classic, shambling, risen zombies as undead slaves to a bokor, and infected contagious fast zombies of modern movie thrills. How? Well, that’s where it starts hurting my head, but I’ll figure it out. Book 2 is “first-draft finished”, but definitely needs work. 

• anatomy sketches, names of major arteries, important bones, toe-curling words for innards. Blerg!

• A stick-it note with Christmas ornaments on it that says at the bottom Nice Balls, upon which I have written a warning: Lack of routine is a writer’s doom. I didn’t come up with that myself, I don’t think, but it’s the scariest thing on the board by far.

I hope this helps answer the question. I can’t be the only writer with a cork board, or a wall of Inspiration. (See? I capitalized again. Incorrigible? Who, me?)

What morsels do you feed your wolf?

author’s note: you may notice there are no pictures of clowns on my cork board. *presses two fingers to eye twitch* That’s not because I’m terrified of clowns. *blinks rapidly* I could put pictures of clowns up there if I wanted to. Yes, I could. Shut up. Think you know everything. No, what are you–don’t. Why would you … knock that off. Seriously. I will slap you. Please? God, NO! DON’T, PLEASE! OH GOD, PLEEEEEASE NO, NO, N– *falls off her chair in a dead faint*

There. The answer to your other question: “What could possible scare a horror writer, AJ?” Clowns. Only clowns. Next question?

Warmth has returned to the Niagara wine belt, and with it comes a thousand muse-murdering distractions. How does a writer stay focused on her pages when trilling birds are building nests (ok, maybe they don’t do this yet, maybe they’re only dry humping at this point), the construction guys are out (hellooooo hard bodies!), the untended garden is shaming  me with its drab floral corpses and exposed clay (o, neglected garden, where is thy mantle of mulch?). I have the rare urge to clean everything in this house from sinister cellar to little peaked roof, but that has to wait, because my Word Count tool–that tyrant, that bully, that big doody-head–is informing me that today I have written: 0 words. That can’t be good.

Since I no longer believe in writer’s block (though I have imposed the phrase on my mood in the past) I have been forced to learn some strategies to staying on track. If you do believe in the traditional my-muse-is-silent-therefore-I-cannot-create view of writer’s block, ask yourself if any of these methods might help you command the muse’s attention. If they wouldn’t help, perhaps giving your muse a swift backhand might work (unless your muse is an actual person, then stick to wedgies and nipple-twists).

1. Sharpen the Saw (StS). This is something my husband prescribes for burn-out. He’s not an artist, but he’s lived with one long enough to know the signs. Where he learned StS, I know not, but what I do know is this: it works wonders. In the same way that cutting wood with a dull saw fails, writing with a dulled mind also falls short. Perhaps the ease with which you are distracted today is an indication that you simply need an StS day. Take a walk, read something you’ve been putting off, watch an old movie, crank some tunes, take a snooze, teach your dog to maul pig carcasses in preparation for the zombie apocalypse, cook something interesting. Wait, did I say snooze? Don’t do that, that’s absurd.

2. Refocus the Lens. Say you’re writing an historical romance novel about moss monsters invading 17th century Earth from a rift in reality originating in the Paris Catacombs. You might want to consider a good psychiatrist, because that’s weird. Also: you might want to look up the word “romance” as it applies to genre fiction, because you might be in trouble unless those moss monsters are dreamy alpha males invading Earth in some sexy swashbuckling fashion (roses and a reach-around? Clearly I know nothing of romance and cannot help you). But while you’re waiting to see that shrink (hint: don’t tell him you have lurid sex fantasies about little green plant people) you might want to Refocus your Lens with research. Surely, there’s more you can learn about the Paris Catacombs that would make a difference to a subplot? No? You’re an expert? You were born there? In the Catacombs? Oh, just conceived. Well, that doesn’t count.

Try using your thesaurus to make a list of possible words you might use to describe moss men (no, moss men would not have rippling abs, but they might have lichen infecting their bush. Investigate, researcher!). While this Refocus the Lens day might not be writing per se, it’s vital in helping you remember what’s important (and fun) about your story. Fleshing out details is never a waste of time.

3. Jackknife! This might be my favourite non-writing-day activity; since it’s fluff writing which probably won’t be used, the pressure of saying the Right Thing is negated completely, and your creative center can trip happily along, buzzing with some fresh perspectives on a novel that might be starting to feel more like work than fun. Middles have this meh effect on me, so I use the Jackknife to stir the shit (boy, that didn’t sound right at all. Please don’t quote me on that). The Jackknife involves taking the last thing you wrote, just the end of it, and throwing it in the opposite direction to see what would happen. Fold it like a tractor trailer accident on the QEW, spilling characters out of the cab, slicing plot lines like fuel hoses, busting relationships like windshields (enough? Did I hear an “uncle”? OK), until it’s all kinds of wrong. Don’t be afraid: you’re probably not using it, so it’s fine to mess around. Ask the “what if”s. Fiddle with the “she’d never do this, but …”s. Occasionally, Jackknifing leads to surprise developments that can be used in your work. More often, it reinforces that you were on the right track all along, and the uncomfortable bend in plot forces your attention back to your original outline. 

4. Dreamworks. No, not the movie production company. I’m talking about your subconscious, and putting it to work for you overnight. Your moss monster novel (which you’ve now changed to an erotica novel, tentatively entitled “The Grass is Greener”, you cheeky bugger, you) has hit a point where you’re not sure whether to stick to your original outline, or follow an intriguing tangent. Or, perhaps you had no outline, and you write like I do–willy nilly and hoping for the best. You have ideas, and options, but commiting to them on paper (or virtual paperspace) is making you feel squinky (Squinky: (adj) altogether icky, as in “I just saw Saw 3D and now I feel squinky, please pass the brain bleach.”). Jot down all of the possibles just before bed, and put them out of your mind. Your subconscious will ruminate on the problem while you sleep. It’s like having a little grey writing coach in your skull. Actually, that would be terrifying. How would you get him out? Could you hear him up there, whispering plot ideas to you? Would his plots become schemes for his escape involving a garden claw and some pliers? Oh great, now I’ll never sleep tonight …

5. Read. Read, read, read. And this time, I mean your own words. Take a time-out to go over what you’ve already accomplished. Are there places in the book that really shine? Try to remember how it felt to write that. Were your fingers flying? Did the words come out before you even knew what you were going to type? Are there places in the book that fall flat? Can you improve on them today, while you’re not making strides to add to the meat of your novel? Take your story somewhere else: a park, a friend’s house, a coffee shop, to prison, to bed, to the back porch. Read it out loud. Does it flow well when spoken aloud? Are there phrases over which you stammer? Does the dialogue ring true? Do your characters sound distinct from one another? Mark for later those places you feel need a boost or a rewrite (and yes, I do work in hard copy when I do rereads. This wee author loves a nice fresh red pen and some stick-it notes). 

I hope this helps/inspires my writerly friends and my readers from blogland. Do you have favourite methods for getting around the distractions and doldrums, the stagnations, slumps and stallings?  When do you find you have the most trouble writing? Is it seasonal, based on personal commitments, or something else entirely?

 (Author’s note: AJ Aalto is currently seeking agent representation for Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles, while completing the first draft of her second novel, Death Rejoices, Book Two of the same. She may also be standing in front of her bathroom mirror, snort-giggling at exploratory homemade zombie noises, like all horror writers are wont to do.)