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…)

It’s Valentine’s Day, and I love everyone and everything–but only cuz I’m kinda manic. Tomorrow, I may very well hate ALL THE THINGS *rawr* That’s the joy of being bipolar: life is never boring. While some things never leave my OMGIlovethat list, I’m finding that new ones have been cropping up, post-launch. In case anyone is still V-Day shopping for me (I’m looking at you, in the t-shirt) here’s some things I want more of:

1. My readers: Come on, who’s da cutest widdle reader? Who’s my schnoogly-woogly cuddleumpkins? YOU are. Yes, YOU ARE! *smile fades* You are because I SAY you are, and do not seek to circumvent my will, you  uppity little–oh, whoops. Heh heh. I mean… Happy V-Day, readers!

2. Dorky love songs. No, for so-seriousness! Sometimes, I have a heart. *considers this* OK, to be fair, it might only show itself for a few minutes every year, like winter-peeping rodents on Groundhog Day, but when it does, it’s totally dorky and huge, and it demands coddling. This is the point where everyone close to me, so accustomed to my prickly side, either back away in terror, or pounce and take full advantage of the rarely-seen-in-the-wild Al-snuggles. The gentle giant I married does both, one after another. *chuckle*

3. Smelly stuff. In particular, Shalimar perfume, lilacs, vanilla candles, Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet, peonies, fresh ripe peaches, leather, grilling steak, wood smoke, the smell of cigarettes on a man’s lips, tea brewing, dryer sheets, gasoline, a heavy-cedar forest, fresh-turned dirt. For V-Day,  a box of fresh-turned dirt with a dryer sheet stuffed on top might not go over too well with other gals, but with me …

4. Fan mail: Definitely the newest favourite thing on my OMGIlovethat list, especially when they come with “fan service pics” like this! Whaaaaaat? Yes, that’s —->

a reader/friend who did Special Agent Mark Batten’s kill-notch tattoo hash marks on his freaking chest!  Dude! HOW HOT? Fan mail is gleefully received at aj@ajaalto.com . (Pic used with special permission…thanks again, dude!)

5. Yummy stuff: steak, spinach, squash, dark chocolate, Earl Grey tea, blueberries, and my Black Orchid martinis, the recipe for which I will now provide. You’ll wanna write this down…y’know, so you can make me one.

Black Orchid Martini: Blue Curacao, spiced rum, grenadine, 7up, splash of cranberry juice.

6. Law, order, crime, forensics, and abnormal psychology: That will never change. In fact, it may increase after I interview my new friend, whom  I will refer to as Hot Cop until I have permission to name him properly. Looking forward to harvesting all the scary, weird and amazing stuff that surely must be rattling around Hot Cop’s brain.

What are your new/old favourite things? Does Valentine’s Day make you think of treats and special treatment,of luxury and spoiling yourself or someone else rotten? Or are you one of those “This Stinkin’ Hallmark Holiday Is Bullshit Grrrrr” folks?

(editor’s note: For you, dear readers, AJ Aalto will taste test all the drinky-drunky things…because she wuvs you, and alcohol is her wing man.)

Well, it’s been a year of blogs from yours truly, and what have we covered? What haven’t we covered?

We talked about how Hemingway’s ghost is almost certainly trying to plonk me with coconuts. We talked about the “joys” of artistic temperment (also known as an eight ball of insecurity, insanity & desperation), grey hairs, forehead wrinkles–I swear, some days I look old enough to be my own mother–battling the various seasons of distraction, stalking your characters, stalking yourself and occassionally others (ie. my eye doctor), kicking evil in the gonads, and being 100% disorganized for most of the writing process.

We discussed what happens when this little kookpie goes on vacation with her Beta Reader In Chief, whether or not vibrators made by the Dyson guy would be see-through with tornado action, whether or not Megatron porking Smurfette would result in tiny blue badass mutant offspring or huge blue badass mutant offspring (this *is* where my brain goes when it relaxes, sorry).

We also investigated the harvesting of the best “brains” at the All Nude Male Revue at Peppermints in Niagara Falls (hubba hubba), and wrangled several fantastic indie authors in my “Taking It To The Grave” series of Evil Author Interviews. Major bonus: some of those authors are still speaking to me after this ordeal! Must be my perfume. It sure isn’t my personality.

We talked about me spouting random Finnish phrases (kaamea ilma! kaamea ilma!) some of which I can no longer translate, but all of which I enjoy saying because the musical/demonic-sounding language of my ancestors makes me happy, even if I still can’t roll the R’s in the middle of seuraavissa liikennevaloissa … “Seurrrrrrr” *tongue fail* “Dammit! Seuuurrrrr” *pauses to wipe spittle off monitor*. We covered that I am  a bipolar biologist, bookseller-bookworm, stalker-eavesdropper, peeper/groper,  unrepentant pervert, amateur writer and professional doofus.

What we didn’t discuss was outlining … mostly because, I don’t know how to outline, and have been putting off learning by using the handy-dandy, nifty-swifty “that’s not how I roll” excuse. In all honesty, I suspect my life would be a lot simpler if I did learn to outline, but I am a World Class Procrastinator when it comes to things that might punch my brain in the face.

<I’d be procrastinating right now, if I had the stamina.>

This year *pauses to take a bracing sip of tea* I’m going to attempt it: I’m going to teach myself how to outline. I even typed that whole sentence without fainting, although I might have thrown up a little in my mouth.

I am sorta kinda first-draft “finished” with my second novel, Death Rejoices. (<— Note how I’m laying facedown on the fence, there … the trick is, put one boob on either side for balance. ) My method for organizing my thoughts throughout my first and second novel looked like this:

I don’t think this is outlining. If it is, GREAT, I already do it, and I’m done and don’t need to learn anything else. However, I suspect I could do a lot better, because I still run into the “uh, now what?” problem; if I were fully outlined, I must assume that wouldn’t happen. Maybe this is naive. Maybe I’m overestimating the power of an outline. Maybe I’m underestimating my “Pantser” techniques–after all, I’ve been writing for twenty-five years, and I’ve managed to produce … oh, right. One finished book. *scuffs toe in blogland sand* Ok, so, yeah, I do need to rethink my process. (Now’s probably a good time to mention that I don’t get around to filling out my plot cards until I’m about 3/4 through writing the novel, after I get stuck and go, “Wonka wha– What happened? How am I in a rendering plant in Wyoming? Who’s Greg? And what the hairy fuck is werelichen? Is this a joke? Am I high?”)

But for book three (tentatively renamed Last Impressions) I’m using the Snowflake Method. If this doesn’t help, I’ll be touring around checking out other methods, and this is where you come in. I invite you to share your outlining methods with me, tips you’ve learned over the years to make organizing your thoughts easier. Do you use a chalk board? A cork board? A grease board (I want one of those, how FBI-chic would that be?), a series of notebooks, a voice recorder? Or are you like me: shoving notecards in my idea box, never to be seen again, and cramming random scraps of paper in toppling piles, and repeating important plot points over and over, like “don’t forget he lost his tongue, don’t forget he lost his tongue” …boy, I get some weird looks in the grocery store.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto would like to show you the hysterical new size of the Tim Hortons XLRG hot beverage cups. Granted, my hands are wee, and therefore not the best scale to use, but the Moleskine notebook on the right hand side should give you a fair indication of just how much caffeine is on my desk. *twitch*)

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.)