I should be writing. I should be doing laundry. I should be reading and reviewing. I should be interviewing. What I am doing is shopping for juicers.

In the words of Inigo Montoya, “Lemme ‘splain. No, there ees too much, lemme sum up.” I may have mentioned previously (as I am too lazy to go back and check, I’ll assume I have not) that I am blessed with bipolar disorder: thrill-ride highs and Black Dog lows, mumbly-jumbly mixed episodes where I’m sickly blue but wound tight, a storm cloud brewing angry melancholia . It’s a lot like being played across Cthulhu’s noodly appendages; one minute he’s waving you wildly above his squid face and you’re sailing spread-eagle through the air with your limbs windmilling, and then he’s plunging you into the green-black depths to give you an abyssopelagic swirly (Opening soon: the Cthulhu ride at Seaworld!). As a bonus: in between, he curls you up next to his swampy torso to give you the world’s nastiest snuggle, causing migraines, stomach aches and the brain-chem explosions known as panic attacks. It’s no surprise, then, that a great number of bipolar people commit suicide: throw all of the above into a nice internal soup and how comfortable would life be? For as many as 1 in 12, it’s too much to bear.

(side note: before you worry, I’ve never personally been suicidal. I’m terrified of death and plan to live to 9,000,000 yrs old. As soon as telomerase is ready for human testing, I’m on it–you know, after secretly dosing everyone around me to double check for adverse side effects.) 

Why would anyone with bipolar disorder call it a “blessing”? Well, the relationship between genius, madness and creativity is well documented. No, I’m not calling myself a genius (not today. Ask me in a week or so when my ego returns and I may correct this with a careful application of self-depreciation).   Brilliant, prolific spurts of art have come from nutballs curled up on their cold, unforgiving bathroom tiles, wracked with self-loathing and self-medicating with booze and drugs … mentally unstable yes, but creatively glorious (new commercial for Bipolar Conditioning Shampoo–Shampoo today, Conditioner tomorrow! Smells Like Crazy! “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Creatively Glorious”). Some see pain so frequently and bliss so sharply, that they’re able to express the human experience in fresh and meaningful ways, ways that touch people deeply. I hope this will happen for me someday, that this ride I’m on will pay off, that I’m not just crazy for nothin’. I medicate (so I can be a mom, and a wife, and a not-completely-shitty friend, so I can have a job, and be semi-normal) and I plug away at my keyboard and wait for my turn to experience moments of creative high.

Until then, I deal. Because even with the meds, I have days–small d days, where capital letters have no meaning, where joy tucks away and won’t come out to play, where I mourn though no one has died, where I stare in a trance though no spell has been cast. My thoughts turn strange, swirled up like someone took a bendy straw and slurked-out my senses then stabbed at the frozen bits at the center of my mental milkshake. I’m cold and can’t get warm. I’m numb and can’t find comfort. I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to share. I want to throw up but there’s no food in a stomach whose mouth will not eat.  I’d be upset about all this, if I could lurch past apathy to get to angry. Those small d-days are coming. The early warning system has already been tripped. I hear the Black Dog sniffing around my windows.

The good news is, I’ve been dealt this hand so many times now that I have ways to recognize the early signs and have protocols for handling it. Fall-back positions, if you will. Curling up in a ball on the couch and watching favourite sitcom reruns. Playing video games in which I get to do simple, repetitive things like fishing or gathering (yes, I’m talking about Warcraft again, shaddap–you have your drugs, I have mine). Upping my dose of Epival, or–if I’m getting stuck in OCD loops and can’t break free from scrubbing the tub–a handful of lorazepam. Hot cocoa. Reading something I’ve read a bunch of times, old favourites: Piers Anthony’s Rings of Ice, the pages falling out and held together with paper clips, or Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew, the cover so faded you can barely tell what colour it was.

But step one? Step one is always orange juice.

Pulp. Yes, pulp. Thick, full-pulp orange juice. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s chemical. Vitamin c?  The sugar rush? Could be. Psychological? The taste of summer, and sunshine? Could be. Maybe I accidentally pulled a Pavlov on myself and don’t remember? “Whenever you chew OJ, you will be happy!” Whatever it is, it works. I rarely drink juice, but when I’m sinking fast, OJ helps. However, full-pulp orange juice isn’t nearly as popular here as the low-pulp or (horror of horrors) no-pulp. So I’m shopping for a juicer. I’ll make my own goddamned OJ, and it’ll be so pulpy I’ll have to spoon it out of the glass. Maybe I’ll just peel a bunch of oranges and punch them into a soup and then slurp that.  Hrm …. *imagining Viking Sasquatch coming home to find his wife punching oranges in the Tupperware Fix N’ Mix bowl, then having me committed* …

OK, so a juicer it is. 

(editor’s note: worrying is not permitting here. This is a worry-free zone. Worry Warts will be tossed alive in the gibbet to be pecked to death by crows. Don’t worry about the lack of smut talk, either. It’s merely symptomatic of a loss of interest in, erm, everything … consider it a vacation from the wanton sex kitten, and trust that AJ will be back to her raving pervert self in a few days)

I am by no means an expert on writing; I wouldn’t dare claim to be anything above novice at this point in my journey. This being the case, I hesitate to give advice on the craft of writing. I mean, who am I? I’m just some chick hanging out in her Happy Bunny PJs at noon on a Saturday eating boiled oat bran (OK, it’s a chocolate chip scone, but don’t tell my diet) and editing her second manuscript–the first of which is still, post-print, littered with errors in both grammar and judgement. Frankly, I’m contemplating tossing this laptop in the trash and doing what non-writers do all day. Whatever that is. 

<What I assume non-writers do all day behind my back>

I will give a bit of advice today, because if it helps even one beginner, then yippee. Keep in mind, taking writerly advice from me might be as wise as making financial decisions based on a consultation with that hobo outside the bank, but here goes.

I think dialogue between two characters should strive to highlight not only the action around them, but their personal reactions to one another, the ebb and flow of their relationship. Is it new and awkward, or old and comfortable? Are they just learning about one another, or well aware of the undercurrents? Tension? Reliability? Trust? Passion? Amusement? How to show these things without telling? Using this passage from “Death Rejoices”:

I found my Cold Company already at the machine, whisking me some foam and pulling his cinnamon duster from the overhead cabinet. You could set your watch by Harry’s butler-like service; he felt my need and minutes later there was espresso brewing. Hard to find fault with that.

I tried my flex and finger gun routine on him. Harry cocked his head, the piercings in his eyebrow twitching. “Did you have a lovely lesson?”

“Grab my wrist, Harry.”

“Certainly not, you stink of filth.”

“Don’t be a priss.” I shoved my arm in his face. “Grab me and see what happens.”

He watched me for a beat, then obliged; his cool hand landed on my wrist with unearthly strength, clamping down, a python’s unhurried squeeze. After a brief hollering protest, I twisted like Hood showed me. Nothing happened. My hand started turning purple. I twisted outward again, grunting. Harry studied me impassively.

“I’m supposed to be able to get out,” I told him.

“I see. Sheriff Hood has much work to do.”

“If you weren’t an immortal, I’d have freed my hand by now and punched you right in the schnozzle.”

“Assuredly, you would have done,” he allowed graciously and released me. 

What sorts of clues does this conversation offer up about Marnie and Harry’s relationship? (1) The way she approaches him shows she’s clearly not afraid of him. She could have asked, “would it be ok if I tried something with you?” if she were uncertain, but instead she shoves her arm at him and insists. (2) She seeks his approval. She could have told him she learned a new trick and left it at that, but she feels the need to demonstrate. She’s hoping to impress him, to get that pat on the head. And (3) though Harry remains unmoved by her attempts, he humours her. He makes it clear he’d prefer not to (“certainly not, you stink of filth”) but acquiesces–whether to please her or to shut her up, I’ll let you decide. It’s a comfortable relationship, though, in which he is the cool, resigned, dominant figure, and she is the ridiculous little hot-head.

I love fleshing out characters and relationships between them. Probably, I spend too much time doing this when I should be telling the story. Someday a critic will tell me so, and hopefully I’ll have a more mature retort than “Oh YA, doodyhead? Well, you smell like old Band Aids.” (word for word, without a doubt, exactly what will come out of my mouth.)

A good exercise for young writers (and by that, I mean people of any age who are beginning to write, or hoping to learn more about their craft) is to read snippits of dialogue from your favourite books and deconstruct them. What about that conversation revealed the relationship? How did that author show you so much without telling you directly? How did the author point you to clues by using banter, mood, rapport? How can you use the same techniques to reveal important undercurrents, highlight a subplot, make the characters seem richer, more complex, more human?

An author should never have to say “she was afraid of him.” Show this, or any other development, by the manner in which they approach one another, the word choices they make–get down to the grit, hard words vs. soft, active vs. passive, pick and choose until it feels best– and what they decide to say or not; sometimes the things left unsaid reveal more about their personality, degree of acquaintance, comfort level or the brewing strength of the subplot than what they do say. This should be a well choreographed dance. Hear the conversation in your head before you place it on paperspace, then pluck the overly obvious bits and trust the reader; if you’ve done it right, the reader will be able to read between the lines.

Now, there’s a pretty good chance I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.

<I’m the girl they make signs like this for>

Writing is playtime and I’m under the desk eating paste (don’t tell my diet). If any of the above helps, great! Let me know. I’ll be over here mowing through a sleeve of Fig Newtons (don’t tell my diet) and trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the middle of Book 2.

(editor’s note: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING? Do not take advice from this woman! Do you always trust chicks who pop out from behind trees?? Is that what you do, you wander around with questions waiting for some weirdo to pop out from behind a tree? What the crap is wrong with you? Look at that maniacal grin! Don’t you think she’s up to something? This woman delights in leading people astray. She will do so on purpose, just so she can sit back and giggle about it. She’s like an evil fai–no, wait, what are those evil little dudes in Willow? Brownies? Brownies! She’s a brownie!–shit, I could really go for a brownie right now. What time is it? I’ve got the munch–wait, what was I saying? Oh right. Good Lord, people, have some sense! Take writing advice from AJ Aalto and you might as well just flush your career down the toilet right now.)

I admit it: I’m a hermit. I prefer being alone with my characters to being with people, and being in a crowd–you know, out there, in public, ACK!–makes me feel downright squinky. TYPING to people I can do … TALKING to people, not so much. The last weekend in October (2 book signings, radio interview, TV appearance, launch party) was exciting, rewarding, and made the Big Pharma about $400 richer, judging by this mysteriously empty pill bottle on my desk. Thank you to all those who came out to see me, and support me. I hope I didn’t seem too incredibly uncomfortable. I was, but I hope I faked calm well enough to make you guys comfortable at least.

Today, I’ll be responding to not only the real emails I’ve received from readers, but also the many spam bots whose comments I usually trash (the rumours are true: I DO discriminate against the biologically-challenged) and hopefully generate thousands and thousands of bot radar blips, thus securing that all-important “friend” status with the Wired-Living prior to the Robot Uprising.

Sam writes: “I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your book, especially the zebra part. It was really exciting and I think you’re sick. Rock on.”

AJ: “Dear Sam … one of two things has happened here. Either you read someone else’s book, or you’ve psychically divined that book two in this series does feature a Fan Furry zebra. I’m almost 100% sure there are no zebras in Touched. If there are, I must have been so toasted when I wrote it, cuz it really doesn’t fit. I’m curious-bordering-on-terrified to read this zebra scene that was both sick and exciting, though.”

<But not in that way …>

Constipation Remedies writes: “We are a group of volunteers and opening a new scheme in our community. Your web site provided us with valuable info to work on. You have done a formidable job and our entire community will be thankful to you.”

AJ: A new “scheme”? Should I be worried, Constipation Remedies? Should I inform my neighbourhood watch or the local cop shop? Are you plotting the Runnypoopocalypse? OMG!! Will this “scheme” involve Ex-Lax in the drinking water? That’s it! I’m stocking up on butt plugs and Depends.

Reverse Phone Call Lookup writes: “This is the correct journal for anyone who wants to move out out this theme. You attending so such its near tiring to represent with you (not that I would want…HaHa). You definitely put a new twirl on a content thats been codified near for period. Nice personalty, only enthusiastic!”

AJ: Firstly, thanks. I think my personality is nice, too. I’m glad you like my new twirl (been working on it for ages) and you’re absolutely right: this *IS* the correct journal. For anyone. Let’s stop there.

ps. Can you look someone up for me? *grin*

Anna writes: “I loved your book so much and is Harry real? Tell me he’s real or I will just die he has to be real because he is amazing and hot.”

AJ: “Sweety, Harry’s not hot, he’s cold, cuz he’s a dead guy. But I promise you that he’s absolutely real, and–wait! He’s telling me to tell you something. What’s that, Harry? You want Anna to send you presents? Fake BOOBS? Anna, Harry wants you to send him money for ME to get breasticular implantations (uberscientific). Don’t ask him why: he does not like his wishes to be questioned. I’ll email you my address and you can make the check out to AJ Aalto. Harry thanks you!”

 (Editor’s note: When Darth Vader says sign, you sign. That is all.)