Step One: Beg, Borrow, Steal

You: “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

Me: “And you haven’t because ….?”

If your answer to me sounds anything like I have no time or Everyone needs me or I’m so busy beheading these damn squirrels, I will put you in a headlock. BUT I’ll do it with love–probably I’ll even give you a little cheek-to-boobie time (everyone likes that)–because I feel your pain. Writing does require time, that can’t be argued. Words don’t fly directly from your third eye into the computer unless you’ve sacrificed eight drunk moose to Belphegor, demon Lord of–never mind. You didn’t hear that. That’s not my secret, Crazyass Canadian Chick process at all. Nope.

<Belphegor digs on booze & moose meat: trufax> 

Yes, writing takes time, but maybe not as much as you think. If you’ve been putting it off, thinking you shouldn’t bother because you don’t have the requisite hours and hours of uninterrupted desk time (or time to wander through a wildflower-strewn meadow, or a cobblestone street in Paris, or wherever you think “real” writers create) maybe you need to make a deal with your muse: show up for a half hour every day. That’s not ideal, granted, but it’s certainly better than mooning over your unfinished scrap of an idea and diddling your bottom lip like a ninny. Let’s be honest: no one has time. Time doesn’t appear magically. No one is going to deliver time to you in a pretty package with a big, purple bow. If they do, don’t take it, it’s a trick. You can carve out time, but it’s going to hurt a little.

Steal a bit from your regular TV-time. Beg off from one social gathering. Put your video game on pause–don’t worry, you’ll still suck when you get back to it, unless you’re me; I melt face. Enlist the help of a spouse (Hey, think you could manage to keep your son off the roof for thirty minutes or so? Kthnxawesome) or family member, then remember to thank them in the front of your book where you beg forgiveness for being an antisocial dickbin. (<–is that even a thing? Where are my pills …)  

I’m going to propose something that usually makes people slapchop me in the throat; my proposal is a dreadful, butt-puckering prospect, but I’m not saying it to hurt you. Ready? Why are you already making a fist? *glares* Set your alarm … *deftly dodges first punch* … an hour earlier … and get your hairy ass (apologies if you wax yours, how am I supposed to know unless you send me pictures? Jeez)…out of bed…and write. Okay, get the horrified shudder out of the way. Nice. Now go ahead and say it:

You: “Eeeeuuuw. I can’t! I just can’t! I. Need. My. Sleep.”

Me: “Which do you want more? Sleep? Or a finished novel?”

I cannot name one writer-type friend who gets both sleep AND writing done. Most of them have day jobs, and families, and friends, and lives. We squeeze our writing in while other people sleep. That might be why we’re prone to acting like nutbars. You can keep your sleep and sanity, and write “some other time”, whenever that might come. That’s totally your call, I can’t make it for you. I can tell you that since I started getting up at 4 A.M. every day for work, my output has skyrocketed, and not only when I’m ass-to-chair. My brain is churning by 4:05 A.M.–pre-tea, even–and I’m usually doing the ole “writing in the head” business while I cruise the empty streets (sounds like I’m up to something nefarious. Kinda wish I was.) While I’m at work, I’m brainstorming about what I’m going to write next. By the time I’m home, my muse has his hip propped on my desk and is smoking one of my Cuban cigars, demanding to know where I’ve been.

<‘member this guy? He’s a mean, mean muse. He clobbers me with stuff>

Step 2: Change Your Self-Portrait

In addition to time, I have come to understand that writing a book requires perseverence, determination, organization, and faith. That last one’s kind of a deal-breaker.

When do you start calling yourself a “writer”? Some people do it before they’ve written a word. Some people feel weird about calling themselves a writer, even after they’ve churned out tons. My mum called me a writer early. My English teacher, Mr. Schulman, called me a writer (in a “sorry to inform you, but”-style letter to my folks) when I was in high school. I think I started calling myself a writer after I had a pile of papers on my desk that, when strung together, could almost make sense as a story.

If you don’t think of yourself as a writer, and have faith that you can learn the skills needed to go forward, then you won’t give yourself permission to skip that football game or staff meeting (*cough* I never miss those accidentally on purpose to write, never)or movie night out, or family function, in order to devote a mind-melting session to your muse.  Other people won’t understand, other people won’t have faith in you, until you do. If your book is a hobby to you, people will take your lead and also see it as your hobby. If you’re serious about it, then fix the way you see yourself. You’re not someone who likes the idea of writing a book anymore … you’re WRITING a book, and therefore you are a WRITER, and when you finish it, you’ll be The Book’s AUTHOR *cue sexy music, cuz you’ve earned it*.

<If your coffee table regularly looks like this, you should go ahead and call yourself a writer. Also, you should call a good head-shrinker; sooner or later, you’re gonna need one) 

No more stalling. Time to kick your own ass, my friend. Beg, borrow, steal the time. See yourself as a writer, and your project as important.

And consider sending me that picture of your ass, so I know whether or not to keep callin’ it hairy.  

Whaaaaaaat? *cheeky grin*

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto is inspired today by a fortune cookie slip which reads “Luck is the by-product of busting your fanny”, a sentiment she whole-heartedly agrees with. She’s also not joking about wanting to see your ass. Not even kidding a little bit.) 

I have some bad news, folks: the sun is shining again.

That’s right! Hundreds of birds are making their flippity-fluttery return-to-roost commotion, complete with peeps and caws and squawks (with their full-on assault of Cute, how dare they?). Fragrant grape hyacinths are blooming en masse next to my front steps (a creeping, sentient army of evil flora; mark my words, they’re not as innocent as they look). Their scent is putting an extra zip in my step. They’re making me happy, dammit. And that’s a problem for me.

I write horror. I will admit, it’s goofy horror; it’s hardly all fear and gut-ripping. Still, in order to write my kind of shit, I have to be in touch with the dark side of my muse. And right now–because the Multiverse is conspiring to destroy me, obviously– my muse is acting like he took a handful of Valium, slipped on a pink tutu, and, in a final act of unfathomable douchiness, starting warbling old love songs that make me wanna gnaw my own brain out.

I sat down to write about zombies (this morning, it was the fast ones, not the classic slow shamblers) and between the tea (gosh, it was yummy, just the right temp, perfectly brewed) and the sunshine (wasn’t it supposed to rain? Maybe later) and my combat butler vacuuming around my feet (must admit, it’s hard to find fault with that) I was just too damned happy to write scary stuff. And the more I wanted to write, the more content I felt, and then I got mad, and the cat on my lap started purring, and I had cherry pie, dammit, cherry pie, and suddenly being happy was the worst possible thing that could ever infect my soul and I was MAD AT ALL THE THINGS!

I ask you: what kind of lip-diddling ninny gets mad about being happy? Well, me, but with good reason. I need some fear. Monsters. Thunderstorms! Darkness! Slime and sludge and grit and misery! I might–no, I almost said it, but I’m not quite there yet. You’ll know it’s bad when I turn to clowns.

So, since I am perfectly handicapped in the fear department (I don’t believe in writer’s block as you know, but I’m starting to accept that I might have “horror block”) I was going to focus my contentment to write about my cheerful attempts to collaborate with fellow writer Jason D. Ready, shown here, about to be decapitated by yours truly (note the smile on my face–see? Too happy!).

I had a whole blog in my head about the secrets to writing fiction with another author … blending styles, reworking one another’s dialogue, Outlining For Two, idea sessions, parcelling-out characters and scenes … trying not to kill each other … But then I got happy again. It’s totally the sun’s fault *cough*. Plus, I’m all schloopy-brained, because I carbo-loaded yesterday (if I say it like that, I totally sound like a long-distance runner, and not someone who hoovered three pounds of leftover cherry pie down her suckhole, amiright?). Also: I realized that, despite my legendary earlybirditude and pitbull-on-soup-bone perseverence, I know dick about writing as a gruesome-twosome, since we have only just dipped our toes into the process.

The Aalto-Ready (Ready-Aalto?) collaboration blog will come, as will an interview with my poor, hard-done-by collaborator. Sorry, dude, but I’m pretty sure all of our writing sessions are going to look just like this …

Jason: You know what really shouldn’t come next? <insert most disturbing thing ever>

Me: THAT HAS TO HAPPEN! Plus <makes idea worse>

Jason: Or this … <makes idea ten times worse>

*both dissolve into tipsy giggle fit*

Too much fun. Oh dear Crom *worried face* what if I never get the fear back? Now that’s scary ….

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.)

This morning, my friend Dax pointed out that Touched is #7 on Amazon’s horror best seller list. WOOT! “Feel pride” was not first on my To Do list today … “be an irksome twat” was. I feel so unprepared. After I regained consciousness, I couldn’t help but wonder what my main characters would say to their author about this climb.

Marnie: Apparently, people love dingbats, dick jokes and general assholery. Who knew?

Batten:  My faith in humanity just took a major ass-reaming.

Marnie: We earned a cookie, right? Huck it over thisaway.

Harry: How preposterous, my philomel. I daresay your doggerybaw is enough to drive one perfectly mad.

Chapel: Excellent work, Allison, but let’s focus on the case at hand. *taps folder* You wrote three missing people, and it’s unsolved, so when you’re ready to stop crowing and get back to work ….

Marnie: Don’t jizz a brick, dude, Al’s busy feeling rad.

Batten: You never shut up.

Wes: Don’t let the ray of sunlight and epic angel trumpeting distract you from your fucking work, eh? Jesus.

Danika: DIE, you corpse-fluffing bitch, DIEEEEEEE!

I’ve joined the big ole Amazon KDP thingy; if you’re an indie author, you know what I mean, and if you’re not, probably you don’t give a squat. For the sake of transparency, I’m going to update this blog with naked pictures of my nipples (no, I’m not). Even more horrifyingly, I’ll update the blog with my sales numbers. The free promo started late Thursday night. So far, 1120 free copies of Touched have been downloaded. I’m not sure how many of those will be read, but I’m hopeful. The free promo ends Saturday night at midnight PST, and Touched will return to it’s regular selling price on Amazon. To be continued …

(So, in the end, 1399 copies of Touched were dowloaded for free. In the ten days following, I have sold more copies on Amazon than in the entire months of February and January combined. Conclusion: success! I am quite pleased.)

Technically, I was on the best seller list before, but hovering around #326,890 doesn’t inspire much pride. Now that I’m in the Top Ten, I’d love to say it’s about to get classy up in this joint, but we all know that’s a pile of asspatties. Let’s pretend I’m pouring my muse right back into writing and working hard on Death Rejoices like a good little writerghoulie. Truth be told, I’ll probably dump half a gallon of cherry brandy in my herbal tea and play video games for the rest of the day, and blame the snow, a “headache”, or bone-tickling bliss for my lack of wordcount. Either that, or I’ll spend six hours on Cafe Press making myself a t-shirt that says “I’m #SEVEN, BITCHES!” that only I’ll understand, and then not actually order one, because I’m still a brokeass Sentence Strangler.

Hmmm. Sentence Strangler. Maybe I’ll put that on the t-shirt I have no intention of buying.

(editor’s note: Fair warning:AJ “Avalanche of Awesomesauce” Aalto is going to be (even more) impossible to live with (than she usually is) if Touched climbs the list any further.  Don’t worry, this won’t alarm the Viking Sasquatch she lives with. Nothing does. He’s clinically unsurprisable, ever since that time he caught me folding a brownie around another brownie and trying  to force my mouth around it…)