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.) 

After reading my last blog, my husband said (casually and quite foolishly) “You should blog about what scares the pants off a horror writer’s spouse. Give the world a picture of what it’s like to be married to a …” He bit his tongue, smiling easily. “Writer. Like you.”

 I can accommodate his wishes, sassy as they may be. It was three weeks ago, the last time I tore asunder my husband’s personal fortifications and brought him in a quivering heap to his knees. I think he’s got some grey hairs from the event. It went a little something like this …

 “Babe,” he said, zipping his laptop case and checking his iPhone messages. “I’m gonna be late tonight.”

“Oh I see …” I put down my tea. “But not late-late, though, right?”

“It’s possible.”

“Like, ABBA-punishment late?”

He groaned. “Not that. Come on, babe, gimme a break.”

I fluttered my lashes, grinning a warning.

“I’ll try to be home before you go to bed …”

“You’ll try?” I clarified, and began to hum softly.

“… but it looks like I’m going to have to rebuild the whole damn server—“

I wound up and belted out: “One of is crying, one of us is lying, in my lonely bed!”

He slumped with a long-suffering sigh and a dying moose sound, a drawn out uuuunnnnnnggggh.

 “Staring at the ceeeeeeeiling!” I raised my voice a full octave. “Wishing she was somewhere else insteeeead!”

“Woman!” he pleaded.

 “One of us is lonely, one of us is only, waiting for a caaaaallllll.”

“Whaddya want, money? Blood? A kidney?”

“Sorry for herself! Feeling stupid! Feeling small! Wishing she had never left at aaaaalllll.”

“That’s it!” He came forward in a rush. “Come here, you.”

I danced away to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, lifting my voice to the rafters, flinging my arms wide. Before I could get another word out, he crushed me face-to-chest in his bear hug.

“NEFFER LEF’ A’ AWWWWWLL!” I wailed, smothered by his abs. He’s that tall.

He tightened his hold until the fight went out of me. “All done?”

I nodded, a lie.

“ABBA-ed out?”

Again, my nose wriggled around against his rumbling diaphragm. “I’m sorry you had to experience that,” I coughed as he released his titan grip. “But you brought it on yourself.”

“Maybe if you could fall asleep without a man in your bed, it wouldn’t be an issue?”

“Maybe you should hire a man to sleep beside me when you can’t make it home in time?”

One massive dark eyebrow shot up comically. “Oh, really!”

I just grinned, and dodged from his grasp. “Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight! Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows awa—ack!!”

 And now, having had a naked, honest taste of the torture and torment my battle-ready husband is subjected to, the hourly peril he faces, the hurdles he so tirelessly vaults, shouldn’t someone knight the poor bastard already?

Frequent visitors to my home office (or, as my impertinent family likes to call it, “the dining room”) will be familiar with my wall of horror: a large cork board upon which 2D victims of my amusement are impaled with thumb tacks. Perhaps not the best preprandial artwork to peruse. Also: the reason we don’t eat in the “dining room”. There, I keep pictures and lyrics, sketches and quotations, scribbled notes and to-do lists that look like I stole them from Dahmer (fix “bone snapped wetly” … corpse would be dry by now). Of course, Dahmer only ever gave me nausea, a Clark Bar (“For Quick Energy!”) and some nightmares in the early ’90s. Just kidding, I don’t have nightmares.

I’ve been asked where I get my weird ideas. My knee-jerk reaction was: “Who you callin’ weird, you fuc–oh, that was a compliment? Ah. Right. I was going to say, focaccia … that old Italian verbal lovetap. I know it’s a bread, sillypants, where do you think they got the name? No-no, no need to Google it. Focaccia translates as: delicious friend. Yes it does. Trust me, I’m a writer, I’m paid to *know* these things.”

Today’s blog is in response to the question of Inspiration. (That’s right, I did it. I capitalized. Again, trust me. I am a writer. I can capitalize all day long if I want to. Sometimes, that’s all I do.) I guess people are worried about writers of horror and dark urban fantasy; if we can imagine such dreadful things, surely there must be … urges? Urges that may be dangerous to the general public. Urges that should be medicated. Can’t she write something nice, they wonder? Maybe there’s nothing nice inside her. <insert concerned head-cock, squinty eyes and lips pursed in thought> Maybe her brain is just a big rotted mat of evil. <insert sage nod>

I can’t answer to that; I’ve never seen my brain, not even when I roll my eyes way up ’til it hurts (warning: don’t do that, it hurts!) What I can say is this: I believe in the two wolves thing. You know, that old saying … inside every man are two wolves, dark and light, in constant battle for dominance. Who wins? The one you feed most often.

So I feed my dark wolf (raw organ meat, door-to-door salesmen). When I don’t, I honestly can’t write horror. I lose touch with it, then I feel like I’ve fallen between the cracks. Once I’m lost, it takes a long time to wriggle back into the grimy crypts and cold dank cellars of my imagination. And that’s where I belong, make no mistake about it. That’s where I come alive; my smile hardens, my eyes sparkle, my family hides the knives (no biggie, you can do a surprising amount of damage to door-to-door salesmen when you’re dual-wielding pickle forks); my Word Count tool heaves and shudders as it attempts to calculate, when I’ve been in dark places. Apparently, I have lots to say, some of it absurdly goofy, most of it gory, and not a page of it “nice“.

So how does this writer maintain that dark wolf? Music, sometimes. And the cork board o’ horrors, which is ever-changing. What’s on there today? 

• the lyrics for “the Derelict”. Sea shanties help me write. “Twas a cutless swipe or an ounce of lead/Or a yawning hole in a battered head … yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!“

• Pictures of mountain lakes north of Boulder, Colorado, where my imaginary town and lake (Ten Springs and Shaw’s Fist respectively) are located. Since I’ve only been to Colorado once, I live off  memory and travel guides and the interwebz. Part of me that loved Denver got stuck there; placing my first person character there made sense, felt right. On my outline for Book 3 in the series, she comes to visit my neck of the woods: St. Catharines, Niagara Falls, Thorold, Virgil, Welland. But she’ll always go home to Denver.

• A picture I cut out of the Sears Catalogue of that blond guy who’s been modelling for Sears for-fucking-ever. He’s wearing a suit. When I was 13, he was my pretend boyfriend whenever I catalogue-daydreamed. I have this fantasy where I run into the Sears Catalogue guy in the produce aisle of the grocery store and I drop my Freudian cucumber and sputter: “holy flaming twatwaffles, it’s YOU, it’s really YOU!”, at which point he freaks out, because other than a deranged stalker, who recognizes a fucking catalogue model? At least the fantasy never includes me dropping to baritone to croon into the cucumber-microphone: “Fifteen men of ’em stiff and stark/ Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”  That would just be weird.

• A side shot of Jude Law (Do I really need to explain that one, ladies? Do I need to explain the half naked cops and firemen? Do I need to explain why I drew chest hair betwixt their man-nips with my kid’s brown crayon? I didn’t think so.)

• sketches of fallen angels, Leviathan, graveyards, ravens, crypts, abandoned autopsy suites, old plantation houses, Mansard mansions like the house from Psycho, the Paris catacombs, London at night, primeval Serbian forests, sigils and symbols and magic alphabets and conjurings, sketches of Cthulu (with brown crayon chest hair. I couldn’t help myself!)

• various artists’ interpretations of Asmodeus, banker at the baccarat tables of hell. I shoved Him in my books, for as He doth command, so shall I–erm, because I was being creative. Yeah, that’s why. I’m a good girl. *tents fingertips and eyeballs the southwest corner of the room over her shoulder* “Ten fathoms deep on the road to Hell/Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!“

• Pictures of every classic vampire, and by classic, I mean “tear your throat out and leave you in a twitching heap” vamps, not “I’m too emo-vegan for my fair trade bamboo shirt, but maybe, if it’s all right with you, I might softly kiss the back of your hand? But only if you’re ubercomfortable!” vamps. My favourite shot: Bela Lugosi as Dracula, lurking around a corner in half-shadow. Oh, the pure creeptastic delight!

• Many pictures of the goblin shark Mitsukurina owstoni and the vampire squid Vampyroteuthis infernalis, the coolest real monsters currently residing on planet Earth, to my knowledge. I mean, besides clowns. 

• A handwritten lovenote I wrote to myself, to boost my self-esteem: “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have no faith in you.” It makes me happy.

• Latin words useful in binomial nomenclature, for inventing new plague names for zombie goodness in Book 2. I dig science when it allows me to explain preternatural goodies. I used the bacteria yersinia pestis, responsible for the Black Plague, and altered it to spread an undead plague through bites. Fun! (Ooops, is my nerd showing?)

• a list of possible (mythical? legendary? supposed? partially-logical?) ingredients for raising a zombie via Haitian necromancy. Because I enjoy blending the two types: classic, shambling, risen zombies as undead slaves to a bokor, and infected contagious fast zombies of modern movie thrills. How? Well, that’s where it starts hurting my head, but I’ll figure it out. Book 2 is “first-draft finished”, but definitely needs work. 

• anatomy sketches, names of major arteries, important bones, toe-curling words for innards. Blerg!

• A stick-it note with Christmas ornaments on it that says at the bottom Nice Balls, upon which I have written a warning: Lack of routine is a writer’s doom. I didn’t come up with that myself, I don’t think, but it’s the scariest thing on the board by far.

I hope this helps answer the question. I can’t be the only writer with a cork board, or a wall of Inspiration. (See? I capitalized again. Incorrigible? Who, me?)

What morsels do you feed your wolf?

author’s note: you may notice there are no pictures of clowns on my cork board. *presses two fingers to eye twitch* That’s not because I’m terrified of clowns. *blinks rapidly* I could put pictures of clowns up there if I wanted to. Yes, I could. Shut up. Think you know everything. No, what are you–don’t. Why would you … knock that off. Seriously. I will slap you. Please? God, NO! DON’T, PLEASE! OH GOD, PLEEEEEASE NO, NO, N– *falls off her chair in a dead faint*

There. The answer to your other question: “What could possible scare a horror writer, AJ?” Clowns. Only clowns. Next question?