Fear and Writing in Horror Land

It’s been a dog’s age, and then some, since I last jabbered on about the subject of writing. Especially writing horror. But recently, someone was shocked when I told them I wasn’t afraid of cemeteries. She said, “Well, that makes sense. You do write scary stories.” The truth is, I’ve never been scared of cemeteries. And I know exactly why. For the first 8 years of my life, I lived across the street from the famous Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. Look out the window, there are rows of headstones. Playing punch ball on the street, the gates and cemetery wall were our backdrop. I had a grandmother who thought cemeteries were the most peaceful places on earth. She’d pack picnic lunches so we could spend the day at a cemetery. And you know what? She was right! I love the beauty of cemeteries to this day. I don’t see them as a spooky place or somewhere to go running around looking for ghosts. In most cases, they are well-tended nature preserves – just with dead bodies silently decomposing under your feet. I even made Woodlawn Cemetery the setting for a story in my Jessica Backman series way back when because I wanted to encapsulate a period of my childhood within the realm of that ‘universe’.

So no, you’ll never find me quaking at the thought of going to a cemetery, even on a foggy night with coyotes cackling in the darkness.

My dad, bless his heart, took me to see every scary movie that hit the movie theaters or drive-ins by us because he realized that at a young age (maybe too young), I was more fascinated than terrified of the on-screen horrors. To that end, I LOVED monsters (and still do). From the bevy of Universal monsters to giant ants in Them!, Godzilla, killer rats in Food of the Gods and anything made by the legendary Bert I Gordon, I couldn’t get enough. One of my favorite double features my father ever took me to was a double bill of Jaws and Grizzly, at the Bainbridge Theater in the Bronx when I was about eight years old. I got to see a nekkid lady skinny dipping, Quint eaten alive by a shark, and someone’s head lopped off by the giant paw of a very angry grizzly bear. I left that old, and now demolished, theater with my little brain abuzz. Fear was out of the question. I wanted more!

Monsters aside, I didn’t flinch during The Exorcist or the demonic madness of movies like The Sentinel. I understood from an early age that everything I saw on the screen was make believe. Giant grasshoppers were not going to chase me from school. Odds are, I wasn’t going to get eaten by a shark at Orchard Beach, also in the Bronx.

All that being said, there was one category of horror that did, and still does, chill me to my marrow. And that is anything involving home invasions or serial killers. Because home invasions happen all the time. Serial killers known and unknown are out there right now, plying their nasty trade. Growing up in the 70s, crime was a major concern in New York. I would jump from bead at the slightest sound at night, my heart pounding in my throat. I just knew someone was breaking into our apartment, and we were all moments away from being killed. Things didn’t get better when we moved from the Bronx to a house in Yonkers (the next town over). I don’t think I ever got used to the sounds in that house. And guess what, I was a kid terrified of the Son of Sam, because he was in Yonkers! When we played ball outside, we always had a lookout to warn us of anything or anyone that looked suspicious. Think of that. As much fun as we had being outside and playing, we were terrified to our cores enough to set up a lookout. This was all after doing nuclear bomb drills with air raid sirens blaring in school. Ah, the good old days. If Russia wasn’t going to blow us to hades, some random psycho would break into our homes and upend our lives.

My wife, like so many others, is addicted to true crime shows and murder docs. I can’t bring myself to watch more than five minutes. Too real. I read and watch movies and television for the same reason I write – to escape the real. Escapism is my oasis in a world that has always been mad. Give me a bigfoot gone berserk over John Wayne Gayce anyday.

Now, looking back after having written almost 50 books, I don’t have stories about serial killers or home invasions. Although, I could argue that my paranormal books that deal with unexplainable, intrusive phenomena are at least a kissing cousin of home invasion tales. They say, whoever they are, that you should put your fears on the page. I say, nah, you don’t. I mean, why live with the thing that scares the crap out of you for months to a year or more? That’s not being very nice to yourself. And it won’t make you a stronger person/writer. That’s like that old, dumb advice to punch your bully back and he/she will back right down. Been there, did that, didn’t work. The return punches were not worth the effort.

Like all writing advice, everything I just said is as worthwhile as it is worthless. Ultimately, you have to do what works best for YOU. No two writers are the same, and no piece of advice is universal (well, other than, finish the book!). I prefer to write about the things that thrilled me as a child. I love the absurd, the impossible, and the strange. The real-life stuff, I see that on the news, which is why I avoid it like the plague.

The question is, what scares you? Are you game to bleed your fear all over the page? If you are, go for it. Or, if you’re like me, dream up ways to make Bigfoot battle the Mothman in a fight to the death. There is no one size fits all. Run to your fear or from it. Life is short and we all have just so many stories to tell until we become a story to be told. Make the ones you tell count, and try not to torture yourself while doing it.