Just got the news that my local bookstore wants me back for another signing this summer, so I’ll be hauling a ton of books over to Chapters in St. Catharines on Sunday August 27, from 12-4. I’ll have copies of my new standalone psychological thriller, CLOSET FULL OF BONES, as well as the newest addition to the Marnie Baranuik Files, BLIGHTMARE. WOOHOO! I’m hyper about it. Maybe I’ll make some cool swag to go with the books. What should I make? *thinking cap on* Oh boy, oh boy! Gonna come see me?  ~AJ xo

So, I was painting my toenails Three-Day-Old Corpse Blue and thinking about ooky stuff, because that’s what horror writers do on Tuesday afternoons when they’re not digging shallow graves, looking at internet pictures that should never be seen, or inventing fruity cocktails with cute names that reflect one’s personality, like “Last Time I Saw Them, My Panties Were In The Punch Bowl” or “Passed Out Naked On The Neighbour’s Back Porch, Which Isn’t A Porch So Much As It Is A Collection Of Pleasantly Cold Cement Slabs”.

I’m afraid my ookiest fears are pretty pedestrian. Being eaten alive. Being eaten alive by stuff that just won’t die. Being eaten alive by stuff lurking in deep water or tenebrous shadows. Being swarmed by bite-y insects with too many legs. Being eaten alive by a troop (gaggle? flock?) of clowns. Zombies. Zombie clowns. Swarms of underwater zombie clowns with too many legs–crap!! Think I just wet my pants.

Anyway, this inspired a conversation with my husband-slash-manager-slash-motivator (if by “motivator” you mean “guy who bribes me to do shit by buying me chocolate”) during which I’m pretty sure he suspected I had a serious head trauma, if I’m diagnosing the look on his face correctly.

<When faced with an evil clown, remember: kneecaps speak louder than words>

Me: So, I saw Dan last night…

Viking: Manboobs Dan, Hairplugs Dan or “Only Daniel, never Dan or Danny” Dan?

Me: Hot Dan. With the abs.

Viking: Skinny guy down the street? *glares* The man who doesn’t own a shirt?

Me: Don’t even think about buying him one, either.

Viking: *glares harder*

Me: What? I said please.

Viking: No. You didn’t.

Me: Oh. Well, I think he’s a fireman. Everybody knows you don’t buy a fireman a shirt. That’s goddamned kooky.

Viking: When you say you “saw him”, you’re not editing out the words “through my binoculars” are you?

Me: Shyeah, like you’d let me own binoculars.

Viking: After what you did with the night vision goggles? Fuck, no.

Me: “Blah-blah, stalking is illegal, Allison, blah-blah-blah.” Could I get to the important part?

Viking: There’s an important part this time? Jesus, I better put my coffee down.

Me: Dan is afraid of clowns, just like me.

Viking: You know this how?

Me: I was wearing my t-shirt that said “Die, All the Clowns, Die” and he bought me a tea. We toasted. It was a bonding moment.

I use my fingertip to mime a tear of sentiment rolling down my cheek. My husband, accustomed to my dorkiness, waits me out with an expectant lift of his eyebrow.

Me: I’m putting him on my Clownpocalypse Survival Team. I think he’d be handy, what with all the muscles and stuff. Man … the hours preceding my horrible demise promise to be truly epic. *smiles dreamily* I almost can’t wait for the clowns to invade.

Viking: *clears his throat from the distant plane of reality* When the clowns invade, naturally they’ll do so from … Cirque du Soleil?

Me: Gawd, I hope not. Acrobatic French clowns would be sexy and scary.*shudders* My loins won’t know whether to get happy or run screaming with the rest of me.

Viking: So, you think they’ll invade from, what, the Big Top? Ringling Bros? Barnum & Bailey?

Me: No, smart ass, from the abyssopelagic ocean trenches, where they’re breeding their slimey, green-toothed army. Duh.

Viking: Must be hard to keep the greasepaint on, underwater.

Me: Dude, we don’t joke about that.

Viking: First Rule of Clown Club, don’t joke about greasepaint?

Me: *narrows eyes* You’re not as funny as you think you are.

Viking: That’s probably true. So this Dan character was pretending to read words that fall across your tits, then bought you a tea? And from this you misinterpret …?

Me: He was hardly pretending, he repeated the words aloud.

Viking: Allow me to correct your fallacious assumptions. A) he’s had 30 years to practise the skill of reading a woman’s shirt while scoping her breasts. B) Writing on a shirt is practically permission for scoping your breasts. C) He was absolutely scoping your breasts.

Me: *snorts* Scoping. Listerine-ing them. Fresh Mint-ing them. What’s next, he’s gonna gargle them?–whoa!! That sounded a lot less pervy in my head.

Viking: No it didn’t.

Me: Well, allow me to disprove your theory. *lifts shirt* Checkmate.

Viking: Not sure what kind of chess that was, but I enjoyed losing.

Me: Clearly, he wasn’t checking out the Itty Bitty Titty Parade. Hmm … a parade would be a bad place for the Clownpocalypse to start. Oh! I think I just scared myself again. *fans self*

The Viking’s lips almost turn up in a smile, but he’s a very smart man who knows better than to giggle at the chest of the slightly cracked woman who has given him two healthy children, and who cooks him non-toxic food, and who tends to lay awake long after he’s asleep and prone. He surrenders to my logic with a tired laugh.

Viking: Not to discourage your convincing and very scientific display, but does this conversation have a point?

Me: At the moment, it has two.

Viking: And I don’t even have to read anything to scope ’em out. Thanks for that, by the way.

Me: But yeah, I do have a point.

I smile, and it feels like triumph. It feels powerful. If I wanted to, I could terrify the big, strong, clothing-impaired fireman, reduce him to a quivering mass who might sleep by nightlight for a few nights because of me. I’ve had many friends who won’t read my book because “I can’t do scary” … and that is so full of win. I’m not sure I can put it into words, so I don’t try. I shrug, sighing happily. The Viking’s eyes widen with alarm, and that, too, feels like triumph. I am a horror writer … and your fears are my balls to juggle. Even tough guys are scared of something. Everyone’s scared of something.

Hey, what are you scared of?

Maybe you’re afraid of spiders; perfectly natural, since everyone knows they’re tiny skittering bags of creepsauce. I mean, even their webs induce shoulder-hunching heebie-jeebies. Look at that colony! What the–that’s repulsive. I’m not afraid of one spider. I can trap a small one and set it outside, or squish one of those fat ones that appear without invitation or warning in your shower when you’ve got shampoo running down into your eyes, the ones that cause you to shriek and slip and nearly cream yourself on the corner shelf. Oh, I can squish those motherfuckers real good, just give me a bottle of Prell and ignore the war cry and the whackwhack WHACKWHACKWHACK! from the bathroom. Yes, I can handle one spider. But an infestation of them? Hmm, what would be worse: being covered in spiders all stirring about, or facing off against a single underwater zombie clown?

Maybe you’re afraid of snakes. Or sharks. Or the dark. Or a psycho breaking into your house while you sleep. Or the colour of my toenail polish (I admit, it’s looking rather ghoulish). If you’re an aspiring horror writer, get in touch with what scares you the most, and try to write about it. Lead up to the big reveal nice and slow, knowing full well what’s around the next corner. Feel your own belly quiver. If you can scare yourself, you can scare someone else.

What? Oh hell no, I’M not gonna do it. I said YOU should do it. YOU’RE brave. I’m a big chicken. I’m writing this from under my desk, sucking my thumb. I am not writing about clowns, not today. Fuck that noise. I like my sleep.

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto will now demonstrate her keen ability to speak Kitten, by translating the following feline body language. “Mummy, I don’t think you should sweep the floor, ever-never-ever. Therefore, I am putting myself bodily in your way to prevent such an action from occurring. If you feel the need to sweep, you should observe my case of the rampant cutes, and find something more worthwhile to do, like playing video games, or hey, don’t you have toys that make funny noises?” … kittens: little balls of fluff and wisdom.)

A Peek Behind the Eyes of a Horror Writer: R. A. Evans

*Whispers*: Shhhhhhhh. No, no. Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse. They’re iron shackles, Mr. Evans. Pretty sure your futile twisting isn’t going to accomplish much. Now, focus. Over here in the corner. There ya go. Hiya! Nice bow tie. *finger wave* Christ, you’re pale. Didn’t see any heart problems when I hacked into your medical records, but I suppose under the circumstances …*ahem* 

Mr Evans, look past the furnace to the cellar stairs, if you would, please. See that hatch? You’re probably thinking it leads to freedom. You want that, don’t you? Wanna play “guess who holds the keys to your chains”?–gosh, you’re quick, even when you’re hyperventilating. *steps under the single swinging lightbulb* You needn’t stare at the work bench like that; I hardly think I’ll need tools to get what I want from you. Unless you’re going to make me work for it tonight? … Settle down, bronco, that was not an invitation to resume bucking. Golly–threats from a man in a tight spot like this? Afraid that won’t get you far. *shakes her head sadly* And if you spit at me again, I’m gonna have to put the gag back in. Here’s what we’re gonna do: I’m going to ask you a few simple questions. You’re going to tell me what I want to hear. Then I can set you free. Now, close your eyes. Relax. This won’t hurt much. Cross my little black heart and hope to rot.  

            Spill your secrets, Mr. Evans … I’ll take ’em to the grave.

AJ: Give us a little synopsis of AsylumLake. It’s a horror novel, correct? Well of course it is, or you’d never have ended up here. *innocent smile* Tell us a bit about the story.

RA: Asylum lake is a story about the power of memories – especially those of the dark and sinister variety – and how they can attach themselves to places and things waiting for you to return. The memories in my story involve an abandoned asylum, a nefarious doctor, and three generations of the Tanner family. Asylum Lake is a tragic story of loss – with plenty of chills, blood, and even some humor mixed in. The mysteries of Asylum Lake run deep – and beneath its sparkling surface the unremembered have grown restless.

AJ: Do you think you’re more sensitive to the horrors of every day life … or desensitized to things that might shock others? Generally speaking: are horror writers harder to scare? 

RA:I actually think horror writers are easier to scare – we tend to find darkness and tragedy in what are otherwise normal surroundings. I, for one, tend to look at life through a dark filter. I have a very healthy fear of the unknown. Anything from what lurks under my bed when I shut the lights off, to what the neighbor next door does behind closed doors – it’s all unknown. As a writer, I just like to fill in those blanks. Writing, to me, is like a Mad-Libs on steroids.

AJ: Do you remember the last thing/situation to make your blood run cold, to make your heart hammer, to fire off that fight-or-flight?

RA:I was awakened a few nights ago by a dream that involved finding a headless corpse in my bathtub. It all felt so real. I laid there in my bed for the longest time, afraid to go check the bathroom.  Ever since I’ve been trying to recreate that feeling of fear with my current project.

AJ: Are you a fear junky? Do you enjoy feeling frightened?

RA: Definitely. Very few things come close to the rush that fear provides. That being said, I am also quite possibly the worlds biggest wuss, so I don’t push my fear limits very often…or far.

AJ: So you’re a ginormous pussy. Gotcha. (I’ll put that box of fat, juicy nightcrawlers away in a sec.) I know where and when my random “what ifs” usually pop up, let’s see if you’ll be brutally honest with us: where do your “what ifs” occur most often?

RA: My best “what ifs” occur while watching television. 

AJ: OK, so totally not what I was expecting.

(What I was expecting, or some version thereof —->)

(side note: One wonders how many new shower curtains a gal can buy in a month before her husband calls the men in the white coats?) 

RA: I had a great “what if” while watching American Idol last week. “What if the zombie apocalypse started with Ryan Seacrest in the middle of the show. How many people could he devour/infect before the camera’s stopped running?”

AJ: I think zombie Ryan Seacrest (AKA Ryan Z-crest) would be even more annoying than he is now, fly-speckled guts flapping out and all. Dude, a classy gentleman tucks in his shirt AND his entrails. That’s Style 101. 

AJ: Asylum Lake has religious undertones: the priest, the Parting of the Veil … are you a fairly spiritual person? Do you believe in a ghost, spirit or soul that lives on? Do you have the devil on speed dial? 

RA: I’m not a fan of organized religion but do consider myself a spiritual person– 

AJ: Hold on a sec …. *sneers into cell phone* So that’s why you won’t answer my texts, because you’re busy with this jaggoff? Nice, Lucifer. Reeeeal nice. *hangs up* Sorry you had to hear that, Mr. Jagg–err, Evans. You were saying?

RA:  –I think George Lucas was rather spot on with his take on the whole thing – there is a “force” that lives within each of us. Whether it’s a soul or not is anybody’s guess.  As for ghosts and spirits, I believe we all leave pieces of us behind when we die. Some of those pieces are just darker and angrier than others.

AJ: Dark and angry pieces need lovin’ too. Like this fellah, though I think I’ll love him from afar. So, describe to me your mindset at a funeral. As a writer, are you taking mental notes?  

RA: I can’t say that I’m taking mental notes, but I do try to draw on all of my experiences when writing. There is a lot to be learned from how people express their emotions – especially grief.

AJ: Was there a scene in AsylumLake that you found especially challenging to write, or that kept you awake at night?

RA: Without revealing any spoilers – there is a childbirth scene in the back of an ambulance that gave me fits. It was tough to write for a variety of reasons. I must have re-written it half a dozen times. I’m still not completely happy with where it landed – but I was too worried about pushing the envelope with it. I’d love to hear some feedback from readers. I’m sure they know exactly which scene I am referring to.

 AJ: I remember it vividly. Did you have any moments in the creation of a particular character during which you upset/disturbed yourself?

RA: Dr. Wesley Clovis is a pretty disturbing guy.  His bloody handiwork is mostly only hinted at in Asylum Lake – it’s not until Grave Undertakings that readers will get to see just how creepy the guy really is. There were a few times that I even freaked myself out a bit. He was a blast to write, however.

AJ: How much like you is your protagonist, Brady Tanner? How long has he been rattling around inside your head?

RA: Brady is entirely me – but from 10 years ago.   I’m nearing forty and feeling even older. Brady’s almost thirty yet still hip and cool.  He gets to say and do all of the things I wish I had the courage to. The best part of writing Brady was all of the little anecdotes I sprinkled throughout the book. It’s a sneak peek into my own warped world.

AJ: In his song Misery’s the River of the World , Tom Waits wrote: “If there’s one thing you can say about mankind, there’s nothing kind about man.” There are a few characters in Asylum Lake that definitely illuminate Waits’ point. What sort of struggles does this present to Brady Tanner, his mindset and his resolve?

RA: Brady is grieving the loss of his pregnant wife and is teetering on the edge of his own pit of darkness. As the secrets from his family’s past begin to surface he is confronted with the knowledge that he shares some very disturbing similarities with the story’s antagonist – Ellis Arkema.  Asylum lake is a story of loss — loss of love, of life, and in many ways loss of one’s sanity. Brady is dealing with all of these things – as well as supernatural elements with a taste for blood.

AJ: Fear and sex seem to go hand in hand in the horror genre, in both novels and movies. What do you think is at play there, and what is your strategy for managing sex scenes in your work?   

RA: Sex can be used to depict a character’s strength or vulnerability.  It can be used as a weapon, a punishment or sometimes even as reward.

AJ: Better reward than Alpo snacks.

RA: It’s carnal and physical – full of lust and raw emotion.  Asylum Lake has a very tender sex scene. Grave Undertakings opens with a hospital orderly diddling the still warm corpse of a patient. Both are powerful elements which are integral to the overall story.

AJ: Sorry, I’m still snort-giggling about “diddling a warm corpse” … ah, the follies of youth and the raging excitement of new love. Wait, what? I mean … dude, that’s sick! 

RA: Much like comedy, however, it’s a challenge to write sex in a believable manner. Too easy to make things sound like a Letter to Penthouse Forum.

AJ:  I’m sure I wouldn’t have a CLUE what that is. *batting eyelashes*

One last thing, Mr. Evans, before I unleash you upon the world again. *slow, wicked grin* On the table behind me, you will notice a Gransfors Bruks forest axe. Very nice, yes? You’ll also see a 3 lb ball pein hammer, a handheld oscillating bone saw, piano wire, neoprene gloves, a box cutter and an ErgoHunter Avid buck knife. You’ll have 30 seconds and one shot to finish me off. *dangles the keys to the shackles on one finger* What one item do you choose?

RA: The box cutter, of course. The first slice will take your tongue. I like my women quiet. Then your eyelids – no closing your eyes and wishing this away as a nightmare. I want to watch the life drain from you.

*unlocks her captive and steps back, whipping two pickle forks from her pockets.*

Most excellent. You want my tongue, Mr. Evans? By all means, come and take it, if you can. *plays pickle forks adeptly across her knuckles*

                                       And may the best horror writer win. 

(Author’s note: R. A. Evans is the author of the delightfully wicked horror novel Asylum Lake, available here http://amzn.to/hGNex. Check out Mr. Evans’ blog at www.raevanswrites.wordpress.com  or follow him on Twitter @raevanswrites–found lurking now and then in #pubwrite–for upcoming news on his work. I’d like to thank Rich–Thanks, Bow Tie!–for being such a great sport. I’d also like to remind my readers that banter between writers is fraught with fictional elements, especially on this blog. I encourage my readers to check back for the launch of R.A. Evans’ next book, Grave Undertakings, in the near future.)

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto carries pickle forks in her coat pocket, but only for the same reasons all the other pickle-fork-wielding maniacs do. Extreme caution should be used in approaching this woman after dark; while tiny and quick with a disarming smile, she’s most likely imagining what you’d look like without any clothes. Or eyes.)

(Author’s note: AJ Aalto is royally insulted by the above accusation and has the following to say about it: “Editor” can take a flying leap backward and sommersault head-first up her own ass.)

(Editor’s note: Being that “editor” and “author” are the same person, “author” may wish to rethink that last statement.)

(Author’s note: No. No. No, “author” does not wish to rethink that last statement. In-fucking-fact, “author” would like to reiterate said statement, add a hearty nah-nah-na-boo-boo, and end blog abruptly, thereby denying “editor” the last word.)

                       *Looks up from sharpening her pickle forks*

Oh hiya! Didn’t hear you creep in. Yes, I’m getting ready for company.  *gives her shiny new gibbet the full Vanna White treatment*

It’s quite thrilling, so pardon me if I’m all a’flutter! Gosh, I haven’t had a guest in my dungeon since … well, let’s keep the closet door closed on that skeleton, shall we? Next week, I’m doing my very first indie author interroga–erm, interview. *tosses towel over power tools and iron shackles* Yeah, “interview”. 

With the kind of courage that borders on folly,  R. A. Evans (author of the chilling horror novel Asylum Lake) has agreed to share some of his secrets with me. And once he does, oh man, I am totally gonna blab.

Before he arrives (read: before I throw a bag over his head, sucker-punch him in the kidneys and haul him into the back of my van) I’d like to clear up some vicious rumours about him … ones I may or may not have started in the first place.

First of all, this is not him —–>

He’s got an admittedly fiendish mind,

but Mr. Evans is not in fact a ghoul.

<–He’s this guy!  Hold on …. *holds finger to headphone, listens with dissatisfied sigh* OK, I’ve been informed that this isn’t him either.

<——  He’s this guy!

But he sounds like this guy  —>

and when you get him in the dark, in front of a mirror,  and whisper his name three times backwards, I swear you can see his soul.

                <R. A. Evans’ soul, probably>

Secondly, Mr. Evans assures me he’s never killed anyone, for realizies. And while I was relieved to hear it, I don’t actually buy that, do you? Nah, you’re right: this guy’s definitiely got bones in his crawlspace.

Thirdly, Mr. Evans does not do his writing while wearing a fursuit with a dickhole. That furry thing in his attic is a blow up doll stuffed into a fur suit. He doesn’t wear it. See? Nothing to worry about. Just your regular, average … hmm … nope, on second thought, that might bear watching.

 Fourth(ly?)  It has been suggested that Mr. Evans is undead. This is completely and utterly false. He is entirely dead, and I know this, because: I’ve NEVER felt a pulse on him, I’ve NEVER seen him breathe–not once!–and if that’s not enough, just look at him. Go ahead, scroll up … notice anything? He’s fucking black & white, people. It’s almost as though he completely defies the notion of colour. I rest my case.

 Last but certainly not least, rumour has it that he’s a degenerate pervert who’s been known to haunt mortuaries and mausoleums in the quietest hours of the night, seeking to satisfy the most depraved and baleful sexual urges, and worse … things you don’t want to know about, things best not spoken of in the oh-so-polite society of the Interwebz. I started this rumour myself (just now, in fact! Wheeee!) because it sure is a fun one, isn’t it?

But the truth is: he’s a charming gentleman, devoted father of three, uxorious husband to a wife he adores,  and he only throttles hookers on the very rarest of occasions. I know, that’s a relief, right? *whew*

 I think everything is almost ready for him at my end. *adjusts the angle of the video camera* It won’t be a lengthy visit *sighs at grim stains on the cement* … visits to my dungeon rarely last long. But it sure will be a thrill. For one of us, anyway.  Heh. *selects pickle fork and tests the sharpness of prongs against fingertip, drawing a pinprick of blood*

      I sure hope that Mr. Evans is ready for me …

(author’s note: In reality, Rich Evans is not a pervert, a ghoul, a dead man, a serial killer, a nice guy or a necrophiliac. Wait! I’m sorry, I’m mistaken … he IS a pervert. Duh.)