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?

Greetings to my new readers. Before we begin, I offer you the following pro-tip: Zombies can’t crouch, and they’re piss-poor climbers. How do I know this? I have bad knees. But AJ, what the crap does that have to do with zombies, you ask? Follow my logic: zombies are reanimated dead people. I am alive. Therefore, no matter how bad my knees are, they must be better than dead knees, no? Humour me, or rub this Ben Gay clockwise on my kneecaps. Choose wisely, my friends.

Point of View: First Person

As the author of a deeply-flawed protagonist, I’m compelled to dig pretty deep into the crudpuddle of humanity to get my head around some of her knee-jerk reactions. Many writers will tell you, sometimes a character shocks the hell out of  her author. My main character, Marnie Baranuik, is an ex-pro psychic,cookie addict and the reluctant guardian of a fussypants vampire. She’s more Mr. Magoo than MacGyver, is under no illusions about it and makes no apologies for it. I try to make her more heroic, I really do, but it never feels right. And bihourly (or, on a day when I’ve indulged my vein-shuddering need for 13 X-large Tim Hortons teas and a 6-pack of Apple Fritters, on an every-other-minute basis) she manages to make me choke a little on my tongue. 

(Side-note: wondering for the first time if there’s a measurable relationship between author’s caffeine intake and character’s use of the word “fuckspigot”. Will investigate presently.)

I’ll sit down to write a triumphant scene of her kicking evil in the gonads, and mentally will tell this character: “OK, Marnie, bust that shit open and drop his ass!” But by the time I’m done the scene, she’s managed a brief, screaming trip down a hill on a stolen motorcycle and executed a textbook face-plant into a hedge. The bad guy is dead, but only because she accidentally plowed through him. She did have a fist-fight. It was with a shrub. This does not in any way resemble the mission I sent her on. 

After a nerd-raging author tantrum (which may or may not involve a dutiful slap across my own face), I reread, struck silent in awe: once again, my character has expressly disobeyed my direct orders and power-slid toward self-destruction. How? How did this happen? More troubling, how did this happen without my permission? If someone started a dead pool on the likelihood of my character biting the big one, I’d be able to participate, having no prior information of nor control over her misadventures.

(Side-note: wondering now if there’s a measurable relationship between the degree of free reign Marnie has in these stories and the size of the drooling hole in my brain.)

Friends who have beta-read my first/third/eight hundredth drafts of Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles will tell me “uh, that’s so you” (kindly imagine if you will their grand rolling of eyeballs; they are disgusted by my failed attempts at coolness). I’m blown away, because while Marnie is geek-smart and funny, like yours truly *cough*, her personality is often horrible, horrible! This makes me wonder, if I’m as crass and avoidant as Marnie, why are these people my friends? How do they put up with me? Guess I’m not the only fan of jerks.

It also leads me to wonder, if Marnie is some form of me … do I secretly want to go kamikaze on a Kawasaki, get drop-kicked by little old ladies and pelt down a dark road pursued by a zombie dentist with a dick-hole in his chimp suit, punting aside the defiled husk that was my pride?

Actually, who doesn’t? That’s kooky talk.  

(Author’s note: AJ Aalto is currently seeking agent representation for Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles, while completing the first draft of her second novel, Death Rejoices, Book Two of the same. She may also be standing in front of her bathroom mirror, snort-giggling at exploratory homemade zombie noises, like all horror writers are wont to do.)

(UPDATE: AJ Aalto is no longer seeking agent representation, as the novel ~Touched~ was launched in eBook format in September of 2011. http://amzn.to/pR0ifw )

I meant to blog sooner, but shortly after I created this page I came down with an accute case of uninteresting with symptomatic boredom, an illness I normally only recognize in certain members of my extended family. Troubling, indeed. I can’t promise I’m more interesting today; in fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hit Interesting without the help of 10 professional con artists and a troop of circus freaks, but I’ll do my best.

I’m back on my special “Writer, Thin-ify Thyself!” diet (she lied, quietly munching on a pecan tart)  and being very healthy, what with all the yoga and daily jogs on the treadmill (lies, all lies) and drinking decaf green tea (blerg! I mean, yum!). Also: I’m working super-hard on the novel rewrites (read: playing pointless games on Facebook while eating the aforementioned tarts, which aren’t even pecan but caramel butter tarts–see? I lie about everything! Maybe I’m not even eating tarts.  You’ll never know for sure.)

For those who don’t know me, I’m currently working on brushing-up my first completed book –a horror novel chock full of monstery goodness of a non-cereal and non-“prom date” sort– in preparation for that bloodcurdling next step: finding an agent or a publisher, whichever I’m lucky enough to procure first. I hope the world of publication isn’t scarier than the novel. I’m reasonably sure there will be fewer ghouls; it’s the only thing that helps me sleep at night.

(My first offer from an agent came from this guy.  I’m not saying it’s a trick for sure, but somethin’ smells “off” ….)

Early this morning, sitting in my car in front of a bookstore at 4 am, I wrote longhand on that flat stuff with one of those lead sticks, like a friggin’ caveman. I was checking to see if I still could work my fingers in a non-tapping motion. My hand couldn’t keep up with my brain, and I ended up with smudgy eraser marks and lots of holes in the page where I had a temper tantrum and stabbed the legal pad 100 times (is murdering a legal pad ironic?) snarling: “kaamea ilma! kaamea ilma!”, which is actually Finnish for “what awful weather” and has nothing at all to do with writing, or words, or my stupid slow appendages, but it must have sounded pretty badass at the time: the people in the other cars appeared genuinely worried.

The battle between myself and the ghost of Hemingway continues. Not yet to be bored to tears with my stubborn refusal to admit coincidences? Let me catch you up: it all began last November, when I toured his home in Key West. I was thinking inappropriate thoughts about Papa Hemingway’s drinking and his suicide (mostly, that I could understand both, but couldn’t understand why the tour guide neglected to mention either), when I thought to whisper these thoughts to my husband. A coconut whipped past my head from above, cracked into the cement between us with an ungodly noise, startling the tour group into girlish eeeeps; I’m pretty sure the tour guide nearly shat himself. After a moment of stunned silence, I whispered “Sorry, Papa”. But then, I did mention I’m a liar, right?

So this November, my husband and I went to Cuba. One night after too much sun and seafood I had the audacity to suggest we “seek out Hemingway’s Cuban getaway”, because I was under the impression he had one. Once again, I got the coconut-shied-at-skull treatment, this time not two feet from our room’s front door and barely an inch from my noggin. This has taught me two things: 1) I should never mention the name Hemingway aloud, especially in the vicinity of palm trees, and 2) Papa’s afterlife-aim sucks. My ghost would have totally smoked Hemingway’s big head, just sayin’.

Then, this morning, during my pre-work writing session in the cramped front seat of my Toyota Tercel, a thought popped into my head: “I bet Hemingway had no problem writing longhand on paper, which he may have done, not like you’d know, as you’re an uneducated dolt. Also: you completely suck, AJ. You really and truly do.” Now, obviously these thoughts were placed in my head by Papa’s ghost; I might not be a huge fan of myself, but I know I don’t completely suck.

I only mostly suck, with days of psuedo-cleverness punctuated by weeks of semi-coherent nonsense. For instance, I spent a large portion of the last hour debating which cheese would be best if one were going to use dairy products to build the Eiffel Tower. (I chose Beaufort, obviously. It’s the only correct answer.) Some people would think this a grand waste of time, but you never know when you’re going to need information like this. It could inspire a whole new chapter in the novel, although I don’t see how, and if it does, my Beta Reader in Chief is likely to scowl and kick me in the box. A patient wordsmith, she is not. Some completely unrelated advice? … don’t try on your husband’s groin-protective cup thingy if he’s at all likely to walk in on you in the bedroom, to see you standing there with it dangling below your crotch. It’s damn near impossible to explain.

Getting back to Hemingway, I suppose I sort of envy him. Not because he’s dead, but because I think I’d like to drink after my writing sessions. Heavily. If I were single, I might. If I were irresponsible, I would. Because without some chemical assistance, trying to keep my brain focused on one track while it’s skittering off in 8 directions is causing a)self-flaggelation of the non-sexual sort, b)a pile-up of scraps, of jotted notes for “later”, whenever that might come, c) a back-up of unfinished projects, including house renos, learning Finnish, trying to cook, mysteries, fantasies, housework, talking to living human beings, research, etc etc. It’s enough to make a girl drive a nail in her brain just to keep it still for a second. And it’s not the caffeine’s fault (she lied smoothly, tucking 3 Tim Hortons XLRG cups behind her monitor, on the off-chance you people can see it somehow) .

All in all, my life isn’t quite what I think it should be right now. I could write the perfect AJ, and you’d never know the difference, would you? I’d plop in that perfect version of me to prance around in a stress-free environment, where words flow smoothly whether by keyboard or pencil, where novel rewrites get done on time, and the house is clean and the dog hardly ever barks at wind and leaves and every creak the old house makes, and my hair isn’t going grey above disturbing new forehead wrinkles, and my ass is suddenly, magically, 2 sizes smaller. She, Perfect Version, has discipline and energy for yoga, walks–nay, runs–5 miles a day on the treadmill, uphill there and back, and knows how to cook like a genius. She speaks fluent English, French and Finnish, and knows how to serve this Harvey’s Bristol Cream she bought on a whim at the Duty Free at the Peace Bridge.

She certainly isn’t sitting on her big ass swilling cold, heavily-sugared tea, clumsily trying to repeat: “seuraavissa liikennevaloissa” to a language CD but failing at rolling her “r”s in the middle of words, and fantasizing about that last caramel butter tart while trying to find her roll of cinnamon Certs under a shoulder-high mound of random scribbled notes from a disorganized mind. That’s for damn sure.