Readers may have
noticed that during the rare blog posts where I don’t talk about food, I tend
to discuss horror-related themes—horror books, and horror movies. And although I do occasionally write fiction
that’s not strictly horror, it usually has at least a horror-ish tinge to
it. This is no accident, as horror is my
favorite genre. Since I’m sometimes
asked why this is, I thought today I’d try to answer it.
When I was
growing up, few folks would have pegged me as a future horror fanatic. Even the most watered down, kid friendly
horror offerings scared the crap out of me.
I guess I had an active imagination, as I can remember at least two
occasions when I was about five or six years old when I hallucinated and saw
supernatural creatures. The first time I
saw a mummy walking into our kitchen, and the second was a lizard man coming up
the stairs. (At least I assume they were
hallucinations—if not they were either non-homicidal, or else they were fooled
by my clever trick of hiding under my bedcovers.) So until I was embarrassingly old (8? 9? Even
later?), it was not uncommon for me to run downstairs in the middle of the
night and have to sleep on the couch outside my parent’s room due to being
scared. (Because apparently ghosts and
monsters could attack me when I was alone in my room, but not in a room
adjacent to my parents.)
Nearly everything
scared me. Any story with a remotely dark
theme. I even recall being frightened by
an afterschool-type television movie which had a (pretty tame) ghost in
it. I’m actually kind of surprised that
“Count Chocula” cereal didn’t give me nightmares. When I was 8, I remember being pissed that my
father didn’t take me to the theater to see “Alien.” Later, when I saw it, I realized that man,
did he make the right decision. If I’d
seen that movie at age 8 I probably wouldn’t ever have slept alone in my
bedroom again. *
But clearly, as I
aged, I began to lose some of this extreme fear. The movie “The Thing” (the John Carpenter
remake) was an important benchmark in my entertainment life. I watched it at a neighbor’s house, on what
must have been a fairly early version of a VCR.
Since the movie came out in mid 1982, this must have been in late ’82 or
early ’83, making me either 11 or 12. I
found “The Thing” terrifying (and still do—it really holds up), but, I didn’t
have to sleep downstairs. I’d finally
gotten over the hump. After that, I kept
going. Obviously I had some interest in
horror, and I watched , and read, more and more of it. Effective examples of each still scared me,
of course, but in a more mature way (or should I say, a less immature way).
It wasn’t long
before it became my favorite entertainment genre. I’d head to the horror section first when we
went to the video store. Also at the
book store, where I quickly discovered Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Robert
McCammon, H.P. Lovecraft, etc. And when
I started to write, invariably it was horror, or at least horror-related. Put it this way—characters in my stories
typically don’t die of old age. And
essentially, this is the same situation I’m in today. I read a lot more nonfiction these days, but
even this tends to be about real, nasty, events or people. Shipwrecks, cannibalism, serial killers—that
type of thing.
Going deeper, the
“why” question persists. No one in my
immediate family was interested in horror.
Some extended family members and friends were, but usually not to the
degree that I was/am. But, my family
wasn’t adamantly anti-horror either, so I don’t think it’s a
forbidden-fruit-is-sweeter deal, or some sort of rebellion. The obvious psychological interpretation is
probably that I enjoy it largely because it’s a way to beat a childhood fear. Watching a movie, reading a book, or writing
a story is my subconscious way of overcoming something that caused me stress as
a kid, and helping to erase the embarrassment that I was so scared. Alternately, maybe it’s a lazier version of
an adrenaline junkie. I want a rush, but
I don’t want to, say, jump out of a plane. Escapism is yet another explanation—it might
help me get through the day to indulge in something scary (yet often
unrealistic) to avoid some real life stressful issues. Maybe it’s a combination of some or all of
these. Or perhaps I’m just kind of
morbid.
Whatever it is,
it’s a strong appreciation. Because,
let’s face it, being a horror fan is tough sometimes. Respect wise, it’s considered by a large
portion of society to be only above pornography as a type of art or
entertainment. To many, a horror fan is
at best dumb and immature, and at worst a sicko. Horror entertainment rarely wins the
awards. Its creators are often asked to
defend their work, in a way that a creator who specializes in comedy or drama
isn’t. Stories and films that are obviously
horror may be labeled as things like “psychological thrillers” to appear more
respectable. To be fair, much of this
disdain is deserved. I’m a huge fan, but
even I have to admit that for every good horror movie there are probably at
least 5, or 10, really terrible ones.
Every genre has its clichés, but horror can be the worst offender. Also, sequels and remakes plague every movie
category, but horror has some of the most egregious examples. In some ways, this can be a plus, since when
you find that rare great one in the sea of refuse, it makes it seem even more
valuable.
I like other
genre offerings too—some sci-fi and fantasy, action/adventure, comedy, and even
a few dramas. Some of just about
everything, with the possible exception of musicals. But, horror will always be number one. Scare me, disturb me, disgust me (or allow me
the chance to do that to readers)—that’s my idea of a good time.
* Amusing story—growing up some
friends of the family rather carelessly allowed their two young children to
watch “Jaws.” Like a lot of kids, this
pair was then afraid that a shark would get them. But they were so terrified that they avoided
using the toilet, in case a 25 foot great white found a way to swim up those
narrow pipes and attack them when they were just sitting there. I shouldn’t laugh too much, since if I’d seen
“Jaws” at a similar age I might also have been afraid to use the commode, or
something even more ludicrous.