I have always been a fan of the Horror Genre. Movies, books, and graphic novels. More casual than hardcore; I will probably get many visitors that will know plenty more about the genre than I do. However, I have a pretty hardcore imagination. My mind flies all over the place, and one I get my fingers moving on the keyboard, it is hard to make them stop. I become emotionally involved. I can’t quite explain it exactly, but I will try.
The very first full length novel I ever read was IT by Stephen King. While reading that book, I would stay up, late into the night absolutely engrossed. One night, I had gotten a bloody nose because the air was dry in my basement bedroom. I slept on twin sized mattress on the floor. (Don’t ask me why; I had the frame for it, but decided not to use it for some reason.) I must have been leaning over the edge, because the next morning I found a sizable pool of blood on the tiled floor. One of my best friends came over and saw it and said, “Is that blood?” and I replied, “I think so; sure looks like it.” He then got an idea to find out for sure and ran upstairs to our bathroom and got a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He ran back to my room and poured some of it onto the pool of blood and it instantly began to bubble and fizz. “Yep, it’s blood alright! How did it get there?” Well, unbeknownst to me at the time, I had a writer inside me (Who I blame for every lie I ever told.) who wanted to play on it, as I knew full well that pools of blood don’t just show up for no reason. Not to mention the fact that I woke with a bit of crustiness in my nostrils and upper lip. I showed him the book I was reading, and said. Maybe I was attacked by Pennywise! It freaked him out (Although, I think maybe it was the writer in him that allowed this little bit of theater to happen.) and I played into it. I was good fun. I loved it. I became an instant fan, and after that, every King novel my mother brought home would be confiscated and devoured.
But that was not where my love of horror began. I blame my mother for this. As far back as my clear memories take me, I remember my mother putting us to bed around eight pm– which was when the R rated movies came on at night– and stayed up watching the 70’s and early 80’s Grindhouse flicks. She would get her popcorn, or chocolates and get nice and cozy on the couch to watch her movie. The couch I would be hiding behind, as I would sneak out of my room, crawl behind the couch (literally right behind her), and watch my mother’s scary movies with her. Sometimes I think she even knew I was there. Either she couldn’t be bothered, or she secretly liked that I had in common with her a love for the morbid kinds of films that she herself enjoyed.
The scene that effected me the most in one of these films, (I was too young to read the titles, let alone be watching them in the first place.) was about a simple man who was being taken care of by a priest, and lived in the churches basement. He was abused by the priest, yet found solace by adopting a puppy that he had found. When the priest discovered the puppy, he broke the poor little thing’s neck, right in front of the simple abused man. As a small child, that part scarred to my core. Yet it had the opposite effect of causing me to run away from the madness. I was fascinated by the emotional response I had. So I kept watching, hoping for more of that feeling. Today, I would call it thrill seeking. It’s the same adrenaline fueled feelings that skydivers, bungee jumpers, and race car drivers get when they are doing their thing. Either way, it is self-inflicted fear, while knowing you are actually safe. (Although, admittedly, scary movies and books are much safer than throwing yourself out of an airplane with a piece of cloth as your only savior.)
As I grew up and my life changed in so many different ways, and I turned down so many different paths, one thing always stayed the same. My desire to consume horror fiction, whether it be through reading or watching. So when I finally decided to go back to university, I had to figure out what I wanted to do and my thoughts kept landing back on being an author. A writer. A creator of worlds, and universes filled with realities and characters of my own fantastic imagination. An imagination that never fully came out from behind that couch.
This new journey is like a scary movie itself. I have dreams, and I have doubts. I want to create with skill, but what if I can’t succeed. What if I can’t create worlds that people want to experience. There are other jobs than these. (That’s a reference. See if you can guess it.) I know I can have a successful career in writing, but will it be writing the sort of fiction I want to write. Horror.
It may be that I can write in other genres, and it wouldn’t disappoint me that much to find I am better at writing crime or romance, but it would be tantamount to having your first love break up with you, only to settle down with your second love, but finding out you never fully got over the first. You are extremely thankful and appreciative of your life, but always think about the “What if?” had your first love stayed.
I am almost complete with the first year on the way to my writing degree. A BA in Creative Writing, and Journalism. I may or may not do a Masters in Literature. I have started two blogs. One of them displays all kinds of different writing in different genres. The other is dedicated solely to Horror. This one. And though, I am quite fond of my other blog, something about this is more endearing to me. It is still in pretty rough shape as of the writing of this post, but I am working on it. I know that no matter what I end up doing, or which direction my writing takes, I will never abandon this blog.
Thanks for reading, I hope to scare you soon!