A.J. Aalto Supervillain on a Leash

Taking It To The Grave 2 (Interview With A Thrill Master)

May 30

No, no–don’t get up … a woman getting tossed in a cell with you is hardly the same as her joining you at the dinner table. Jesus, you can barely stand. Sit back down before you fall. *swipes under her bloody nose with forefinger* No sense cracking your fool head open before they bring your last meal, Boudreau. Yeah … I know who you are. You understand why you’re not chained up, right? *gestures at the iron rings bolted to the wall* Why they left you loose? And why they threw me in here? They know you, friend. They think you’re one of those white knight types. Hope they’re wrong, for your sake. See, they figure if they knocked me around a bit, you’d get riled-up, and when they came back, you’d put yourself in front of me like some macho dickhead. They’re counting on it. Don’t let them fool you, Boudreau—ain’t nothing you can do for me. Standing between me and them is only going to cost you a few teeth.

Yeah, you’re right: I was one of them. Funny, most people don’t peg me for an assassin. But then, you’re a writer: guess you see things most people don’t. I’ve been slated for removal. *defeated chuckle*  It was only a matter of time. Your left arm looks like it hurts, lemme give you something for it. Just a pain killer. No? Suit yourself.  *dry-swallows four pills* More for me. Gonna wish you had a few of these in an hour or so.

What were you thinking? I mean, you’re no dummy, you must have known you’d piss ’em off with your thinly-veiled antagonists. And between you and me, they do not appreciate the word “frankenseeds”. No sense of humour about it. That might have been the last nail in your coffin. How’d you know about the seed bank plan? Lucky guess? Doesn’t matter, now. They’re gonna bury you, Boudreau, I watched them dig the hole. You’re a goner whether you answer their questions or not, so if I were you, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Better yet, give me the answers. I know what they’re dying to ask you.

A heads up? When it happens, they’ll take me away first, for two reasons: first, they hope you’ll get in their way, give ‘em an excuse to do more damage to that arm. Second, you get to hear me scream. They think this’ll make you more talkative, when they get around to coming for you. *turns her head* Hear that? The low hum. They’re warming up the chair. Guess they’re going all out for me. I should be flattered. Won’t do them any good. They broke with me, they get nothing. *raises her voice* HEAR THAT, PERCY? YOU GET NOTHING! Ten years I gave him, and this is how it ends? Nothing more than a primer for an author take-down? Fuck Percy and fuck Slade too, sideways and ass backwards. If there is a hell, they’ll have to face me there someday.

Hey, Boudreau? We’ve got a little time left. Talk to me a bit? I keep thinking about Slade’s AK47. Do you know that thing can fire 700 rounds a minute? Only holds 30 but still–he could turn my guts to a gooey paste in under 4 seconds. Not that I’ll get off that easy. *choked-back sob* Nah, I’m OK. Superfine like sugar. No worries. Tell me about this book of yours that’s got the whole organization pissed off. And then … well, would you promise me something? Before they put the bag on your head, tell the bastards:

                      AJ took your secrets to the grave...

AJ: I understand you used to sing in a band. How does your love of music influence your writing, do you think?
 
AB: In my opinion, performing in a band and crafting a good story are both activities designed to entertain the general populace. If one has talent for any given vocation, I feel you owe it to yourself to give it a go. You know…try it on for size, and see how it looks and feels. Although I had wanted to perform as a singer for many years, it was never meant to be more than a hobby. Writing has proven just the opposite; I never aspired to become a writer. However, once I began, I realized how much passion I had for it, and will certainly pursue it as a second career.
 
 
AJ: Your protagonist is an ex-navy seal. Have you yourself served in the military? How did Mocado present himself to you, during character creation?
 
AB: Murhkin Mocado is the main character in the story, and I created him even before having a loose concept of what “In Memory of Greed” would be about. My desire was to write a character who was very tough physically, but vulnerable, and a bit naive emotionally, due to childhood experiences. Navy SEALs must undergo a series of training programs so rigorous that a large number wash out well before graduation. I thought it would be an interesting, and powerful paradox, to create an incredibly rugged character from a physical standpoint, yet one who carrys heavy emotional baggage. I believe this dichotomy helps cement a bond between Mocado and the reader. If I’ve done my job, people will respect this character for his achievements, and compassionately root him on, as the reader is privy to where his difficulties have stemmed from. I have never served in the military. Instead, I attended college and earned a professional degree in architecture. However, I’ve always had the utmost respect for those who serve our country, and I’m proud to have my MC represent the men and women who protect this nation.

AJ: Were there many scenes or ideas you had for this group of characters that didn’t make it into this story?

AB: I actually rewrote a major percentage of “In Memory of Greed” twice, the third version being the one I published. I started writing the book without having developed an outline first. The storyline wandered far afield from where I really wanted it to go. As a result, many scenes were culled, and replaced with writing that worked. I learned the hard way—writing without an outline is not a method that works for me.
 
AJ: Do these characters still speak to you, with intentions of returning for more adventures? Is there one character who is speaking louder than the rest?
 
AB: The protagonist, Murhkin Mocado, and the secondary protagonist, Joelle Barstow are not quite ready to call it quits. Both will show up in my second novel, which is also a political mystery/thriller. This story will certainly keep Mocado and Barstow busy. My antagonists will likely bury both characters up to their eyeballs in treachery. 
 
AJ: I’m really glad to hear that. What was the biggest hurdle you’ve faced in bringing “In Memory Of Greed” to where it is today?
 
AB: As a first-time, indie-published author, the challenge lies in promoting the work without over-doing it. There’s a fine line between making people aware that you have a quality product to offer, and spamming them to death. I try to give of myself, in terms of helping fellow indie authors promote their work, instead of tooting my own horn, non-stop. I feel that this creates fellowship and camaraderie among writers. Not only that, but it gives me a fantastic reason to read new books. As I often hear it said in this profession: “A rising tide lifts all boats.” I’m happy, and proud, to contribute to this philosophy.
 
AJ: What worries you most: the bioethics (or the lack thereof) of modern agro-science, the murky relationship between big business and government policy-makers, or the sheer size and sway of some of these “king of the jungle” corporations?  
 
AB: All three topics are worrisome, for the simple reason that the revolving door policy between big business and government allows these firms to basically write their own rules then dictate who enforces them; which leads me to the question, who is watching the watchmen? Unfortunately, when those at the top are in bed with one another, the average man on the street ends up becoming a unsuspecting, human guinea pig.
 
AJ: You’ve mentioned before that you’ve got your second book outlined and ready to go. When you do sit down to write it, what will your work/writing schedule look like? Do you set aside time, or grab it when you can?
 
AB: When I am actively working on a WIP, I get up around 4:30 AM and write until about 9 AM. I then head out to work at my day job. Upon arriving home, I do the family thing for a while then try to get a couple more hours of writing in, before going to bed. I also try to take as much time off as possibe, in order to devote large blocks of time to writing.
  
AJ: Stuart Roth’s temper interests me–talk to me about him. From what part of your own psyche did you draw, to write that character’s dark, passionate outbursts, or did you have to look outside yourself to find him?
 
AB: Stuart Roth is an amalgamation of the bosses I had while in my twenties, before starting my own business. Most seemed to get off on their position, lording over employees with a heavy hand. I remember taking issue with how these men treated their staff, acting as if they were vastly better and smarter than the rest of us. When it came time to write “In Memory of Greed,” payback arrived in the form of crafting a character who was obviously his own worst enemy, losing the respect of all individuals with whom he had contact. I wanted to make him funny in a profoundly sad sort of way. I believe I’ve accomplished this with Roth.

 

AJ: I think it’s fair to say that Senator Mocado is a cold, distant man. Whereas Stuart Roth at least has passion, Senator Mocado is the one character in “In Memory Of Greed” to have zero warmth, which makes him a hard, disinterested father. How does this affect his son’s personality? Did you plan this consciously?
 
AB: It was quite intentional that I wrote Senator Mocado, Murhkin’s father, as a self-absorbed, emotionally unavailable character in the story. I believe it adds a layer of emotional complexity to Murhkin, as his past contributes greatly to the issues he’s forced to overcome on his journey. Many parents keep a tremendous amount of personal information safely hidden from their children, in order to insulate the parent/child relationship from unpleasant surprises. This is taken to extremes with Murhkin and the senator. In the end, Murhkin is forced to face certain realities that cause him pain, but also help to provide closure. By working through these revelations, he can ultimately live a more fulfilling life, his journey providing wisdom and strength.
 
AJ: You’re a well-travelled man. How did you choose California, Ireland, and Kenya from your extensive list of locales–why did these three places fit your vision of the story so well?
 
AB: Kenya, in all it’s exotic wonder, burst forth from my mind as a locale that I MUST write about. There is so much about Africa that captured my imagination. It was my first trip abroad; therefore, making it a locale that my characters travelled within my debut novel would not be denied. And Ireland was a perfect fit, as one of my main characters is Irish. Ireland is also quite breathtaking, allowing me to provide the reader with a travel experience they may, or may not have experienced on their own. California seemed right for the U.S. location, not only from a character development standpoint, but also in relation to its geography. Further, I have spent a fair amount of time there. As they say, write what you know. 
 
AJ: You’re not shy about your love of Hawaii–any interest in setting a future story there?
 
AB: Though a number of movies, television programs, and novels have been based in the Hawaiian islands, I feel there is enough diversity of culture, scenery, and history to provide a fresh, solid backdrop for a story. I’ve seen a few attempts get a bit cheesy, in terms of including cliche scenarios, so it’s a locale that requires a certain finesse to pull it off. I make a solemn promise to my readers: no hula contests will appear in any of my novels.
 
AJ: Corporate greed and government corruption feature heavily in this novel. They remind me of certain other massive corporations (which I’ll not mention, lest they aim their dreaded cudgel of death at my forehead) which are, at this point, not even attempting to pretend they’re not a den of super villains. Do you believe anyone can make a difference in the stand against such corporations?
 
AB: Change on this scale, and magnitude, must come about collectively. If a large enough chorus of voices echoes across the land, those who choose to do wrong may just find themselves under a white-hot spotlight. My intent is to be a conduit for getting the word out. I fully intend to be an integral part of the change I want to see happen. This type of grass-roots effort has worked well in the past, and it can work again.
 
AJ: There’s a scene that I’ll never forget in “In Memory of Greed” that takes place in a witch doctor’s shop. Without any major spoilers, take me through your research process for that, because this is a colourful and unexpected addition to the plot. How much of this scene is based in realism and how much is pure fiction?
 
AB: The shop is a real place, located exactly where I described it in the book. I actually purchased a number of tribal masks from the shop when I was in Nairobi. Although I’m relatively certain the real proprietor of the place was not a witch doctor’s son, the vibe I got from having all those tribal masks hanging there “looking” at me was otherworldly. Each was authentic, and hand-carved, belonging to various tribes from all across Africa. The feeling I got while standing inside the place left an lasting impression on me. Therefore, it just had to be the backdrop for a dramatic scene in my novel.
 
AJ: Yep, that’s friggin’ creepy LOL. Was it a conscious choice on your part to give all your characters, both good and bad, personal sensitivity and depth? I’m thinking now mostly of Patrick Keegan, who, as a well-rounded player with both an edge and a conscience, would actually be my choice for most interesting character. Did you set out to create characters with unexpected sensitivity, or was that a happy accident?
 
AB: No accident there. I believe that the most saintly individuals in the world have a dark side. Conversely, those who walk the earth with hearts chock full of evil still have a small area where positivity and light remain. My feeling is, the more a writer shows the complexities of each character’s personalities, the more invested it allows the reader to become. I want to make my readers feel as much as possible while immersed in my work. The best way I know to achieve that, is to provide them with characters who are colorful, complex, and flawed in some way; a figurative meat, and potatoes to sink their voracious teeth into. PS: I welcome vegetarians with opened arms too.
 
 
AJ: How often do future characters, not yet written, disrupt your work day with their chatter in your head? Do you push them aside or jot them down for later?
 
AB: I’ve heard many writers speak of this, but my day job usually requires a great deal of concentration, and situational awareness. I don’t generally allow my mind to drift from day job to writer mode. For me, sitting down to write, whether it’s research, character development, or editing, gets my full attention. Likewise with my day job. I enjoy the process of creating good characters far too much to have anything else enter this realm, simultaneously.
 
AJ: So you’re pretty focused. What 3 adjectives do you hope readers would use to describe your writing style thus far?
 
AB: Intense, fast-paced, and satisfying.
 
AJ: As a writer, what do you feel is your weak point, that which needs the most effort to overcome? How do you plan to improve this?
 
AB: As writers, we all have something new we can learn, on a daily basis. For me, if the rules about writing mechanics were to become more second nature, I feel my work would improve. The more we get right the first time around, the less editing our work requires, to become solid. I actually enjoy reading books about grammar, as they contain the tools we utilize to craft our stories. 
 
AJ: When you read, do you do so as a writer, with an eye to what writerly tricks other authors might be using to entertain you and draw you in?
 
AB: I certainly read differently now than I did before starting this journey as a writer. It’s difficult not to view other works with a critical eye, as that’s how we get the most from our own work. I’m delighted to say, there are few books I’ve read, from which I can’t take at least something away to help my own work. Some are things to emulate, some to avoid.
 
AJ: Do you find yourself mentally editing other people’s books without meaning to?
 
AB: Yes, I totally do this. Each individual has a slightly different way of saying something. What may look and sound perfectly normal to me, might come across as clunky, or conversely, genius to another. While there are some black and white rules to follow, we, as writers, have many options available to get our ideas across. Our own individual styles are what help draw fans to our work. Some of my favorite authors became such, for the simple reason that I can find no flaws with their prose.
 
AJ: Where do you do your best thinking, as a writer? Do you have a Thoughtful Spot, like Winnie the Pooh? Is there any magical place in your world where your words seem to come easiest?
 
AB: I don’t have any one spot that works better than others, but I do have a condition that must be met; relative silence. I can’t have TV, music, or conversations happening around me. Incessant noises, phones, and the like don’t allow my mind to become fully immersed at the task at hand. Give me a quiet spot, and I’m happy.
  
AJ: Talk to me about the #pubwrite crew on Twitter. That’s one fantastic bunch of people who adore you; have you received your Nicest Guy on Earth statue yet?
 
AB: I’ve never met a collective group of people that are better, smarter, or funnier than the wonderful friends I have made on Twitter, and particularly through #pubwrite. It’s very much like an online family for me. It’s my one stop where I can find information, camaraderie, laughter, and sharp wit. These people are the most pure source of joy I’ve found along my writing journey. Haha…no statue yet.
 
AJ: I have NO DOUBT it’s being bronzed as we speak. What is the very best gift someone could give you?
 
AB: I absolutely love when someone finishes reading “in Memory of Greed,” and their experience with my book parallels the particular goals I set for the work when writing it. Writing is my passion…to have someone take precious time out of their busy lives to give my work a shot is nearly surreal. It never gets old. I couldn’t be more appreciative of my readers and the lovely feedback they so graciously share.
 
 AJ: Was there a singular “click” moment in writing “In Memory Of Greed” when you could see it all coming together? 
 
AB: Only when the climax was fully developed, did I feel I had the story clenched. I’ve read a number of books by some very successful authors, where the end left me flat, and completely unsatisfied. I HAD to nail the ending of “In Memory of Greed.” In the mystery/thriller genre, the story must build to a stunning crescendo, or you haven’t done your job, as an author. The moment I came up with the finale, I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
 
AJ: Paint me a picture of Al Boudreau the day after you launched “In Memory of Greed”. Business as usual? Nervous? Elated? What was going through your mind?
 
AB: I remember feeling a tremendous sense of relief. Now, as I look back on that time, I realize just how naive I was. Who knew that writing, revising, and editing was the easy part? Networking, promoting, and the whole process of utilizing social media, while fun, takes a tremendous amount of time and energy. I find that small, daily inputs work well for me, allowing progress while taking time to really enjoy the ride. For me, it’s about the journey more than the destination.
 
AJ: I think I hear them coming. One last question for you, a fun one. The table is set, the invitation is sent and accepted, you’ve been able to invite one author, living or dead, to dinner to talk writerly talk–whom did you invite and why?
 
AB: I would be sitting on a barstool in Key West next to Earnest Hemingway, if given the opportunity to chat with a particular writer. His work is so appealing to me that I could pick his brain for hours, taking detailed notes all the while, of course. And we’d certainly be getting some drinking done in the process, ’cause that’s how Ernie and I roll.
 
*rests her head against the wall with a sigh* I hear boots. It’s OK, I’m ready to go. I’ll say hi to Hemingway for you.  *looks over her shoulder at the hallway* He doesn’t know shit, Percy, let him go. He made it all up, he’s a storyteller. It was a big coincidence, that’s all. *shrugs sadly at the writer* Was worth a shot, right? Be sure to look me up on the other side, Boudreau …
 
 
 
 
 (author’s note: Neither AJ Aalto nor her dear friend Al Boudreau were injured and/or snuffed in the making of this interview. They did, however, have quite a bit of fun. His marvelous book “In Memory of Greed” can be bought here http://amzn.com/B004L2LJ94 and you can visit his website here http://alboudreau.wordpress.com AJ would like to thank Al for his gracious acceptance of my request for an evil author interview and his tolerance of my rampant silliness and flights of mania. Thanks so much, Al. You’re a doll!)
 

Why Writers Should Listen to Kids (Also: Why I’m Going to Hell)

May 29

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.)

 

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Harvesting the Best Brains (And Junk)

May 26

 

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. )

 

 

A Short Story on a Wednesday? (How Absurd!)

May 25

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.)

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