When I was little, I had trouble reading. I didn't have a learning disability; I think it my bad home life more than anything else. My parents were fighting (which is a polite way of saying I witnessed domestic abuse) and I had a fruitless year in french immersion, where I learned to speak English with a french accent. I was behind and had to rely on girls for help. Gradually I learned but I was never comfortable with reading.
One weekend I was up country, visiting my grandparents. My papa had been a military officer, and I spent afternoons playing with his unloaded .22's, .45's, and even two .303's. (This was in the mid-seventies: years later Papa turned in his weapons under an amnesty program, save for the twenty-two.) He also had a shelf full of books on history, marine life, and birds. On the bottom shelf there was always, inexplicably, a horror novel.
The first horror novel in Papa's study that I picked up was The Dark, by James Herbert. Up until then reading was a sweaty ordeal: I was made to read shit about dragons waltzing through flower gardens as my father glowered over my shoulder. Reading sucked.
But I started reading The Dark because of that bearded black demon on the cover. I was astounded: people were butchered in this novel. Some poor woman has a shotgun inserted inside her and is blown up from the inside. A little old man is raped by a fat naked woman before she strangles him with her hair. There's a riot at a football game; about twenty thousand people perish. All written with quite graphic detail, I might add.
This astounded me. You could read about this shit? Words could describe literally anything? All you needed was to be able to read and the most unspeakable vistas would open up? Keep in mind I could read these books in front of my family as they had dinner and chatted; I think that was the most attractive feature of horror. No one else knew just how sick horror could get.
From then on I was hooked. I would haunt the old used bookstore on Barrington street and buy all the horror I could find. I read a lot of crap. But in months I was the best reader, the fastest reader, in the school. My teachers thought I was faking, in the fifth grade I could read faster than they could.
So here I am. I'm writing it, reading it. I don't think I'll ever give up on horror, even if it seems to have given up on itself. If I have to single-handedly resurrect the genre, I will.
Does anyone want to help?
I've been writing stories for years. I think I'm a good writer and I'm willing to bet you'll feel the same way. So here they are. Enjoy them, comment on them, tell your friends about'em, reblog them, retweet them, reread them. I have four stories in my archive so far:
"One day on the Mountain", a story of Lycanthropy, a father, and a son.
"The Boy", a story of a very ambitious and sociopathic fifth grade boy.
"The Easy Girl, A story of infidelity and unpaid sexual debts. This story is very dark.
"Brick The Mighty", a story of an aging superhero.
Although this is primarily a blog of horror, I also write about things that are important to me. I have more stories tucked away; they just need editing. There's even a few novels. There will be more to come.
PS. Feel free to leave a comment. I love comments.