Aries: Stubborn as usual, you face the coming conflicts in your life with the hard-headed certainty that you are right. This time, you ARE right. Someone IS out to get you. Probably, it’s not me. Come out swinging, Aries.

Taurus: You’re not happy unless you’re whining about something, and do you have a lot to complain about lately. You must be fucking thrilled. We’re not. We’re the ones who have to tune out your fat, yammering yap.

Gemini: You’re on top of the world, and why not? Your recent foray into emotional flexibility has left you capable of juggling all sorts of balls. I’m not calling you a slut, I’m just sayin’…yeah. Rock on, Ball-juggler. You get yours.

Cancer: Inside that hard shell, your squishy, wishy-washy moods wax and wane so often that none of your closest friends know what to expect from you …which is fine, because if they really knew what was goin’ on inside the shell, you’d have no friends left. Lunatic.

Leo: Yes, it’s still ALL ABOUT YOU. Yes, YOU’RE FABULOUS.  Now that we’ve said it, could you shut up about yourself for a moment? No? Didn’t think so. I know, I know, you’re not arrogant  you’re just better than everyone else. *smirk*

Virgo: You are not a centaur. No, you’re not. No, you’re–take your meds, sweety.

Libra:  Your ability to make everyone’s problems seem to disappear is less about your being a good nurturer, and more about you poo-pooing some serious issues to avoid your own personal discomfort. Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, TOM.

Scorpio: That thing you’re doing with the Saran Wrap is unholy and unnatural. For the love of cheese, please stop it.

Sagittarius: *blink* You have no horoscope. This might mean every Sagittarius on the planet is about to die simultaneously. Either that, or I need another cup of coffee before I read the stars again, and maybe you should get me one.

Capricorn: Nose out of joint? How is that a change? Aren’t you tired of being so easily injured? Talk to your Cancer buddy. He’ll teach you how to build some fairly decent walls. 

Aquarius: You’re considering WHAT?? ARE YOU NUTS? You can’t do THAT!! Oh wait…I read the stars wrong. I think. Well, go ahead…I mean, if the worst happens, it’ll happen to you, not me. 

Pisces: Heed your initial instinct: spanking her and calling her your bad girl WILL go over quite nicely and reap you the raucous rewards you seek. Don’t forget: sometimes bite marks are hard to hide.

(Editor’s disclaimer: AJ Aalto is not an astrologist, nor does she have any experience with the stars. She does, on the other hand, enjoy people’s flaws and takes great delight in making fun of them. Also, she likes to predict nonsense and invent future tomfoolery based on absolutely nothing.  Also-also, AJ Aalto knows no one named Tom. *smirk*)

I don’t remember how old I was when I decided which genres of fiction I would enjoy, but I DO remember that I was thirteen when I fell in love with horror and fantasy. The former was thanks to the genius that is Stephen King and the short stories found in Skeleton Crew. The latter was due to my discovery of David Eddings’ Belgariad series. When I was older, I started borrowing mysteries from my grandmother (Agatha Christie, mostly) and read a lot of forensics-heavy mysteries by Kathy Reichs and Patricia Cornwell–unless I was on a plane. My ONLY plane-ride reads were mysteries by Robert B. Parker, dialogue-heavy books that I could start during take-off and devour in the five-ish hours it took to arrive on the West coast.

Until a few years ago, I avoided the dusty little corner of the store where the Westerns reside. And then Robert B. Parker wrote a western. And another. And I knew it would be a good read regardless of subject, simply because I enjoy Parker’s style. I gave it a chance, enjoyed it, and started browsing the section. And that’s when I realized: Westerns have The Most Kickass Titles. 

<Damn right, bullets don’t die.  So don’t even TRY to…kill a bullet. Cuz, you will fail. Also, you might look kinda stupid trying to stab a bullet>

<…are the fine states of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama?>

<I don’t know what a “High Grader” is, but it sure looks like I wanna be one>

<This would also be a splendid title for an erotica novel by Trixie Loinburger>

<Need I say anything about this one?>

So, are there any Westerns you particularly enjoy? What does one drink when one reads a Western? Beer? Whiskey? Is there a genre that you think can TOP the Kickass Title Championship currently held by these fine offerings? Are there any titles that knock your socks off?

Just a quick note today. I do believe we are aiming for an April release. By that, I did not mean that the people who have me chained in the basement are planning to unleash me in April to wreak havoc in the streets (though that sounds like fun, too). I meant, of course, the release of Death Rejoices, the second book in the Marnie Baranuik series. Now, I know we’re all very excited, but do try to control yourselves…

<Mmmnnyeah, don’t do that>

This is crunch-time, people, so if you see me wandering the streets in my pajamas, talking to myself exclusively in foreign swear words, pulling on my hair, and trying to take down full-grown trees with my teeth, just duck behind a big shrub until I’ve passed by and you should be perfectly safe.

Side note: I recently downloaded a Magic 8 Ball app for my phone, and am now letting it make all my decisions. I don’t believe in plastic prognostications, except that I totally do. But no. Yeah. So, let’s try it out. FOR SCIENCE!

Me: Should I go for a walk? *poke*

Magic 8 Ball: Cannot Predict Now.

Me: Okay, so maybe later. Should I read a book in a bubble bath with some chocolate and a glass of wine?

Magic 8 Ball: Outlook not so good.

Me: What–why? Am I gonna drown in the tub?

Magic 8 Ball: Without a doubt.

Me: Uh, I think I know how to take a bath without accidentally killing myself?

Magic 8 Ball: Don’t count on it.

Me: Magic 8 Ball, are you a piece of shit?

Magic 8 Ball: Very doubtful.

Me: Am *I* a piece of shit?

Magic 8 Ball: It is decidedly so.

Me: OH YEAH? *poke!*

Magic 8 Ball: Ask again later.

Me: I said, OH YEAH?? *jab jab jab!* Think you’re so much smarter than me, huh?? *JAB!*

Magic 8 Ball: You may rely on it.

So, obviously this thing is way-way wrong. *checks it* I mean, in all the ways, all wrong. *checks it again* Clearly, I shouldn’t even ask it. *checks again* Stupid broken ball.

(author’s note: This is my I’m-Getting-Super-Serious-With-The-Things face. No? Not so much? Okay, it’s my Fetch-My-Cookie-Or-Else-I’ll-Write-You-A-Sternly-Worded-Letter face. Totally scary, right?)

Earlier in the month, I had the dubious pleasure of forwarding the rough final draft of the manuscript for Death Rejoices to my editor (AKA Bossyboots McMeaniepants) and my publisher, at which point I basically did this…

<meep!>

…for about a week and a half, waiting for feedback. The editor’s feedback was (and continues to be) a constant barrage of ego-knocking queries and general knuckle rapping. (Boy, it’s a good thing I spelled that with two p’s.) The publisher, who is a big fan of the first book in the Marnie Baranuik series, had a few easily-juggled suggestions, but one major problem with the second book:

NEEDS MORE SEX.

Nooooo problem, said I, with a twinkle in my eye. Sex, I can do. Sex, I can EASILY add. After all, I’m the Writerghoulie, your genial purveyor of filth, smut, and chocolate-covered nip-slips. (Just kidding! I prefer honey.)

Besides, I said, I know exactly where to stick it. Wait. I meant, I know where to put the–oh, nevermind, you knew what I meant.

So, I flipped open my trusty laptop, skimmed through the manuscript to find the perfect spot (not there, nope, just a little bit lowerrrrrrr–THERE! *ahem*) and, cracking my knuckles as all serious writerly types are wont to do, I settled my fingers on the keyboard, took a deep, cleansing breath, and…

Hrrmmm. *frown* Okay, nothing happened. I read again the scene as it unfolded sans hubba-hubba-dick-smack. Wait, what?! That’s the worst euphemism for sex I’ve ever heard. Probably, you should never smack a dick unless you’re sure that’s what he’s into. Please do not quote me on that, though. Some Aaltos have incredible architecture to their credit; I don’t want THIS Aalto to have a quote about dick-smacking follow me to the grave and beyond.

Where was I? Right, dick-smacking. NO! Sex scenes. It occurred to me that if I came up with a list of sexy words, words that generally pop off the page and make your tingly bits throb (like tingle and throb, for example, or stroke, lick, and tease…), then I’d have a running start at this scene. I made some tea, poured it down the sink, dumped two cups of Fireball whiskey in my mug, and attempted some brainstorming. The whiskey, in retrospect, might be to blame for the resulting unfortunate phone call.

Me: Hey, um, what’s a sexier word for chubby?

Heather: Hello to you, too. Jeee-zus.

Me: Not fat. I mean chubby as in ye olde blue-veined gobstuffer.

Heather: Are you high? What are you talking about?

Me: Cock.

Heather: *chokes on her Dr. Pepper* Woman, I’m in class, here. I can’t discuss… *lowers her voice* I can’t discuss Wee Willy Winkie.

Me: Nope, that’s too polite. Also, no self-respecting woman leans in close to her lover and asks for his Wee Willy Winkie. Not if she doesn’t wanna get cuffed upside the head.

Heather: Can’t we text this?

Me: No.

Heather: Why the hell not?

Me: Tell me which of these words makes you wet…

Heather: I need new friends.

Me: Prick, dick, tube-steak, wiener, meat-whistle, one-eyed trouser snake, crack-hunter–boy, these are all terrible–skin flute, todger, bahookie…

Heather: Stop saying words, now.

Me: What’s the problem? Dong, schlong, beard-splitter, snatch-tickler…

Heather: Snatch-tickler?!

Me: Problem?

Heather: Uh, YEAH, I just yelled “snatch-tickler” and now everyone’s staring at me.

Me: What about Captain Hornington?

Heather: That’s not a thing. Or if it is, it shouldn’t be.

Me: Not sexy? Hmm…Bald-headed bandit, woody, pecker…

Heather: I’m begging you.

Me: Oh, see, I got you begging. Am I turning you on? Root, boner, stiffy, love-muscle…Oh wait! Fucknozzle!

Heather: Gee, Al, I’d love just one day where you don’t yell fucknozzle in my ear.

Me: Fine, let’s skip penis for now. Let’s move on to other body parts.

Heather: Might as well, you just made me say “fucknozzle” in class.

Me: Fuzzburger is probably not hot, right? But what about squishmitten?

Heather: Oh, God.

Me: And cooch is certainly not working for me…

Heather: I’m thirsty. Is it safe for me to take a sip, or are you still talking?

Me: OH! OH!

Heather: *alarmed* Whatever it is, just no.

Me: I think I’ve got a great sentence for this scene.

Heather: I’m willing to bet when you sober up you’ll delete it.

Me: He slid his throbbing lance into her cock-locker.

Heather: Noooooooo he didn’t. Tell me you’re not typing that.

Me: You’re right, it should be dripping cock-locker.

Heather: I HEAR KEY STROKES.

Me: Of course you do. If I add a dollop of glistening man-spackle to that sentence, it’s GOLD.

Heather: It’s really not.

Me: Can you think of a better sentence?

Heather: Almost any sentence is better than that one. Seriously, didn’t you write a blog about how to write sex scenes?

Me: Pretty sure I said man-spackle in that blog, too.

Heather: My point is: why don’t you go back and take your own damn advice?

Me: Well, I’ve got a weird problem. I’m trying to write a sex scene with a male character that I’m not currently being aroused by. And I can’t seem to see him in that way right now. All I can think about is–well, other characters.

Heather: Aha. So instead of throwing ridiculous slang at the problem, why don’t you revisit the times you DID see that character as sexy? What made him so hot the first time?

Me: *thinking hard* Well, he’s dangerous. But safe.

Heather: Mmhmm.

Me: And sorta…predatory. Slow, cautious, a real hunter. He plays hard to get, but not because he’s shy. He wants you to earn it. He knows he’s worth your making an effort. He wants to see how much you want him. And when he finally decides to make you his…

Heather: Okay, good. *gulp* That’s enough. You got it…

Me: His approach is confident. He takes his time. He lingers, letting his hands explore, tasting every inch of his prey, savoring her every quiver and gasp…

Heather: *whimper* I’m hanging up now!

Me: Oh, hey! *nipples harden* I think I felt him enter my brain, just now. *closes eyes* Yep. Those powerful arms, those massive shoulders, his soft, flicking tongue…unf.

Well, hello, my Harry.

(Editor’s note: AJ would like to thank her chief Beta Reader for reminding her that the words are less important than the images they invoke. Sometimes I forget that. Forest for trees, or something like that. This week is sex scene week, which is why I’m horizontal. Looks like Harry Dreppenstedt and I will be spending a lot of time together. Humina humina hell yes!)