In a moment of zero-foresight, I thought it would be a grand idea to interview my mentor, Rafe Brox: personal trainer, editor, and general bossyboots. Dude’s clearly insane. Wears kilts to work. Can deadlift like 500 pounds (an estimate, I’ve lost track; there’s no way I’m going to try and match his personal best.) His clever wit and critical eye make him an excellent editor…’cept he’s MEAN. He’s a BIG, BIG MEANIEPANTS. You should see his Dangerously Disapproving Glare!

<The Disapproving Glare! Good thing I have no ego to crush>

Jeez Louise, it’s enough to shrivel your innards. Not only has he forbidden me from eating carbs, but he doesn’t think my spelling “quirks” or tech-uselessness are charming at all. I forgot about that, in my zero-foresight moment. I remembered soon enough …

Me: Do you remember the first thing you wrote?

RB: The very first thing? No. But I do have a copy, somewhere, of a thirty-page school project I wrote on dinosaurs in second grade (that’s “grade two” for you Canuckistanis).

Me: What made you keep it?

RB: DUDE, DINOSAURS. Also, I rocked the face off that unit.

Me: You do a lot of flash fiction, I’ve noticed. Has this always been the case? Do you think flash requires different skills or discipline than longer works?

RB: I think your definition of “a lot” is a lot more liberal than mine is; splashing out one, two, three, four things of the 100-300 word variety doesn’t seem like a lot of productivity for me when a single blog post or strongly-worded letter is often longer than that (when I get rolling, I really get rolling). However, flash fiction plays to my strengths – clever wordplay and catchy phrasing – while also playing to my weaknesses – a complete inability to develop any kind of plot whatsoever. I can write a mean scene or scenelet, but if you ask me to string them together or figure out what’s supposed to happen next, I’m the next thing to fucking useless. My longest work of fiction was a plodding, sophomoric vampire story that I did for a creative writing course in college, and it was maybe thirty or thirty-five pages (and NO YOU CANNOT SEE IT); most of my output then, and since, has been under a dozen pages or so. Two to ten thousand words is really my functional limit, because I can’t abide fluff and filler and having to both create and consume the density of ideas and whatnot that seems to fall out of my head seems like an overwhelming notion.

I read a shitload of Stephen King’s doorstop books, and they’re like eating Cheez Puffs – lot of air, lot of filler, fairly tasty. But since I’ve moved on towards cyberpunk and short-form Sci-Fi, my taste has gotten… more economical? More focused? Less tolerant of stage-setting description and more keen for LET’S DO SOME SHIT AND EXPLORE SOME CHARACTERIZATION AND STOP LOOKING AT THE GODDAMNED WALLPAPER ALREADY.

Me: So your weaknesses are: building a plot, and fucking finishing something. I cannot tell you how encouraging this is as someone who is going to collaborate on a novel with you *sour smile*. How do you intend to overcome these stumbling blocks?

RB: *holds a mirror up in front of you*
I WILL DELEGATE IT TO THE PERSON WHO IS BETTER AT THOSE THINGS. Duh. You outsource your IT needs and (desperately needed) editing, right?

Me: *simmering glare* Yes, surely I do. To a sassmouth editor.

Sassmouth Editor: So even if I have to bludgeon that Jones character, I bet you’ve got plenty of coattails to ride. And I bet you think I just said you have a fat ass, right?

Me: Speaking of sassmouth editing, how many years have you been trimming other people’s words?

RB: I did it professionally for a few years in the mid-late 90’s for the Outfit That Does Not Deserve To Be Named (because they were lying, writer-scamming scumbags who underpaid their editors and got rich off the sweat of our brows), and have intermittently kept my hand in as a freelancer ever since.

Me: As an editor, you must have certain pet peeves, things that writers do that drive you bonkers? (Oh, hey, that explains a lot.)
RB: If you’re going to use a colloquial phrase, don’t fuck it up, Little Miss “All of the sudden.”
Me: That’s it? One little thing? And it happens to be MY bad habit? Sheesh!

RB: Word repetition or phrasing clunkiness really irritate me; there are so many words in this language, find the right one or combination of them. I’m not one of those “read your book aloud” proponents, but at least do it with some of the goddamned dialogue.

Me: Better question: which of your own bad habits piss you off the most?

RB: I completely suck at establishing any kind of dramatic tension, and I can’t write sex scenes to save my life. As you’ve no doubt noticed in your, shall we suggest, intense perusal of my flash fiction of an erotic sort, there’s an almost comical aversion to actual fucking being depicted; it’s all oblique and suggested rather than shown.

Me: What would you like to see more of in fiction …and don’t say dinosaurs.

RB: I’d like to see stories that aren’t dependent on either the hero, villain, or sidekick being a complete moron. I hate the communication breakdown trope; if people have reasons to keep secrets, that’s character, that’s motivation. If someone could defuse the entire plot by saying something that any sane person would totally mention in casual conversation, then that author needs to get slapped upside the head with a trash can lid.
Also, female agency and fewer pathetic, abject, failings of the Bechdel Test, because, really – women are people, and they’re the majority of the populace. Tokenism, whether it’s gender, race, sexuality, or whatever, pisses me the fuck off.
Also, I think there should be more foul-mouthed motherfuckers in every brand of fiction.
[and if you have to Google shit as a result of my answers, I have totally won this interview, so there]

Me: I haven’t Googled a single thing yet *sticks out tongue* (I’ll Google later) If you could sew two writers’ brains together to make the ultimate Wordhero, which two would you blend and what do you think would result? (other than jail time, Dr. Frankeneditor)

RB: Easy: Steven Brust and Christopher Moore, because that would be some funny, clever stuff. If I wanted to get some grit and spikes into the mix, add Elizabeth Bear and Richard K. Morgan and Hal Duncan. Though if I wanted to make cyberpunk melt, John Scalzi covered in Pat Cadigan would be fairly awesome. Though I would kind of like to know what GRRM would write if you were inside his head, but I think that’s a transgression of the Geneva Convention to either him, or fans of epic literature.

Me: George RR Martin and moi? I think we’d get along well. “Let’s kill this guy, AJ, everyone loves him.” “Ok, but let’s do it stupid-crazy…and naked.” “I like naked.” “I know, George, I know.”

RB: I read too fucking much, and have an absolutely irreverent attitude towards things, so there are a nigh-infinite number of flavor blends I could come up with here if you don’t get off your duff and ask another frigging question, toots.

Me: Are you an outliner or a “pantser”? (I so know the answer) How important do you think it is to outline before writing?

RB: Outlining kills any hope I have of writing anything, because once it’s out of my head and on the page, whether it’s paper or pixels, it’s done. I can revise, correct, or rewrite whole swathes of it, but if it’s outlined, it’s dead bones and is beyond any hope of being resurrected. I’ve got sketch notes for shit going back twenty years that I look at and say, “Yep,” and that’s all there will ever be of those things.
So, yeah, shameless and unapologetic pantser here, because I can’t think out a plot ahead of time anyways, so I have no fucking idea where anything is going to go until I get there. The irony, of course, is that I don’t wear pants (in the North American sense), and haven’t for nearly six months.

Me: there’s a fair amount of ego involved in putting words on paper and then assuming other people would want to read them, yet as a group, writers seem to be a sensitive group. Do you experience this “read my genius/but be gentle!” brand of insanity, or do you have a thick skin when it comes to criticism?
RB: I tend to write and ignore the fact that it might be read by other people because, by and large, it isn’t. My blog (pick one, whether it’s my LiveJournal, my WordPress workout blog, or whatever) gets an embarrassingly trivial number of hits, so it’s not like I’m fucking Neil Gaiman or something. I do write to amuse whomever happens to read my shit, and, ostensibly, maybe sell some words for some filthy lucre, but at the end of the day, I mostly do it to amuse myself and maybe my friends. If I suck, I suck in a vacuum… and if I’m awesome, I’m awesome in a vacuum, too.

Me: Tell us about your educational background, your current works in progress, hobbies…

RB: I have a Bachelor’s degree in English, with a concentration in Creative Writing, but have been doing tech support almost exclusively for the last fifteen years, albeit very *literate* tech support. Once you get that taint on you, it never comes off. This is where you try to look smug about the fact that you can’t tell one end of a battery from the other, and I shake my head in condescending, vaguely contemptuous sadness that you’ve somehow managed to survive to adulthood.

Me: I CAN PUT BATTERIES IN PROPERLY! My vibrator is shuddering proof of that, Captain Smarmy!

RB: The fact that your G spot is the only thing that motivates you to even rudimentary technical competence speaks volumes to my job security, and that of the soft-headed Viking you bewitched.

My only real WIP is that abandoned bastard love child SF-noir thing I’m writing with you. Which is obviously going to gain sentience from the bowels of Google Docs and become an evil AI or something.

Me: Oh, obviously.

RB: Or, you know, just languish until we get our shit together.
I have become a gym rat because, well, fuck, just go look at the bio page on my WordPress blog. I like being hot, I like being strong, and I have every intention of doing both while living forever. I may or may not make a paying gig out of being a personal trainer, but it’s crossed my mind a time or two. I just suck at selling myself.
Me: Do you think your “writing for your own amusement” and suckage at selling yourself would change if your writing was published for a large audience?
RB: I’ve heard a lot of people whose thoughts and opinions and intellects I respect say that you should write stuff you’d want to read; I don’t see my attitude changing in that respect, though I do admit to a tremendous amount of artisanal nerd rage when I see bad writing be wildly successful, or even moderately successful. It’s disheartening to see crap rake in the bucks.
It’s an unflattering combo platter of envy and disgust; these are people who have, yes, written an entire novel, but the level of craftsmanship is so low that I’d be embarrassed to have my name on it.
I have every expectation that I would mortify anyone unlucky enough to be saddled with the job as my publicist, but I think I’m charmingly crass and, if nothing else, pretty honest about who I am, so it’s not like anyone would be surprised. I mean, you’re hardly fit for polite company and you’re doing all right.
Me: Hey–OW! *smirk* thanks. I think that’s enough punishment for Writerghoulie for now. Thanks for joining me, Broxpocalypse.
(Editor’s notes: AJ Aalto’s rewrites continue, thanks to the keen eye and infinite wisdom of her editor. Death Rejoices will probably be complete just in time for AJ to check into the loony bin.)

Now, I’m not saying that shitty things happen just because I step on the bathroom scale, but yes, yes I am, that’s exactly what I’m saying. DON’T DO THAT. In fact, huck that demon-infested number-fibber out the bloody window before someone else gets hurt.

Yesterday, I stepped on the bathroom scale after eating in Paris for a week (what the hell was I thinking?)… and thereby unleashed a shitstorm of events that competed for the Gold Medal in Suckosity–which, if it is not already a word, really should be. Not only had I gained ten pounds (ten! TEN!) but I had three rapid-fire cancellations in increasing magnitudes of suckness.

First, my beta reader cancelled an appointment  Not a huge deal, I see her often, I didn’t really think much of it. However…

Secondly, I got a call from the government. Didn’t really want to answer that one, frankly. How could it be a good thing? “Hi, AJ, this is the Prime Minister. Just wanted to check in and see how things are going with you?” But no, it was the sheriff’s office calling to tell me the jury selection panel had been cancelled. Boo! I might be the only person she called who exclaimed “awww, really? Damn it!” I really did want to be on a jury. Someday. But again, not a huge deal. Slightly worse than my first cancellation.

But then my winery appearance got cancelled not a minute later. Now that truly sucked. And I started to wonder … what the hell, Universe? What minor league god did I cheese-off? And is Cancel Fest 2012 done, now? Or is my ass going to get cancelled next?

Hmm. Judging by the number on that bathroom scale, maybe cancelling my ass sin’t such a bad idea. Heh.

(Editor’s note: Next up, an interview with the inimitable genius that is Rafe Brox, the man I’ve entrusted with the editing of Death Rejoices. I use the term “genius” because, whereas I have a sweet tooth, he has a meat tooth, and I’m afraid he might try to eat my face.)

Manager: AJ, you don’t do enough self-promotion.

Me: I flashed the room service guy in Paris. But it was kind of an accident. Mostly.

Manager: Let me rephrase–

Me: Okay, it was on purpose. But, y’know, dude in my bedroom. Hullo? Can’t hold me responsible for that.

Manager: AJ–

Me: I suppose I did call him. Does that make him a prostitute?

Manager: AJ–

Me: I didn’t have sex with him!

Manager: AJ!!! You don’t do enough BOOK promotion.

Me: Oh. You’re not mad about my flashing the not-exactly-prostitute-room-service guy?

Manager: *head/desk*

Me: So, you mean…Like, making myself sound cool and writer-y and stuff? Jeeeeeez.

Manager: Let me rephrase. Again. AJ? Do some self-promotion.

Me: *upper lip curl*

Manager: Come on. It can be “you-style.”

Me: Oh? Well, challenge accepted, madam! *cracks brain-knuckles*

<side note: when attempting to be awesome, backdrop matters>

“Gosh, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I’m about to be a tad awesome in a minute or so. Won’t last long, I promise; just a wee *shine!* for a bit. Do you suppose you could–if it doesn’t put you out, you know–back up a few feet so I don’t bump you with how awesome I am? Wouldn’t wanna–heh heh–step on your toes or anything. *big smile* Wow, thanks, that’s great. Another meter or so? Sorry! I shouldn’t assume you know metric, eh? Selfish of me. Uh, three feet and a bit? There. Great. Thanks so, so much. Okay, here it comes, ready? Might wanna shield your eyes. My awesome tends to give people a headache. Your awesome is obviously even brighter, so you know all about that, don’t you? Yeah. I thought so. We should talk about you! Let’s talk about you.”

Now that my self-promo work is done, I’ve got several pieces of news to share.

1. I will have many guest posts coming up. The reason for this is two-fold: it has come to my attention that I am surrounded by cool people (don’t know how that happened, I almost never leave my house), and I am swamped with edits and rewrites on my second book, Death Rejoices.

2. Touched, the first book in The Marnie Baranuik Files, has been relaunched by my awesome publisher, Booktrope, and is now available here for Kindle and here for Nook. New cover! All the smut and none of the typos. Hooray!

3. My appearance at Stonechurch Vineyards in Niagara-On-The-Lake, Ontario is coming up fast! Come see me on Sunday October 28, from 2-4pm, have some wine and nibblies; I will be talking about genre blending and the new pulp fiction, and doing a reading from Touched (which will make me blush, as I cannot find a single clean passage to read. Flaming fuckgoblins, am I ever filthy!). Tickets are $7 and available at the door. If you’re interested, I’ll have copies for purchase and I will be happy to personalize & sign.

Now, some pictures from ~WRITERGHOULIE INVADES PARIS~ <cue disaster music>.

<My husband wanted to know if we were going to see anything not related to death…>

<So I took him here. And he forgot about his wife’s obsession with the morbid.>

<Then we went to my future house. Or, as the locals call it, The Louvre>

<Everything was almost surreal in its beauty. Paris is one of a kind.>

<Wrapped up at the Moulin Rouge and strolling in Montmartre.> 

Tune in next time for ~WRITERGHOULIE STORMS LONDON~ and pictures thereof.

(Editor’s note: For no conceivable reason whatsoever, AJ Aalto has begun dressing like a secret agent, randomly posing with finger-guns, and humming the Mission Impossible theme song under her breath in the grocery store. Also, that one from Dragnet. She might buy spy equipment next. It’s hard to say. She might already own some. She might be recording conversations. She might be talking in the third person right this second … the freak.)