Halloween and Horror

There are some things you need to know about me. I wrote a novel about demons and monsters from the pits of hell, one scene of which a reader referred to as "nightmare fuel." I have stepped into the ring and willingly was assaulted with steel chairs, golf clubs, kendo sticks, and a lung full of baby powder. Been hurled through the air by 300lb+ men who then came crashing down on me elbow first. And through all of that, you must know one thing: I am a coward.

So it's Halloween. The time of year where I pretend I'm not interested in Circus Circus' Fright Dome because it's too cliche. Where I excuse myself from viewing the newest Evil Dead reboot because I like the one with Bruce Campbell better. Where I decline the opportunity to play Five Nights at Freddy's because I've already watched the Let's Plays and theory videos on YouTube. Those are all true... but the hide the fact that, even if they weren't, I wouldn't do those things for money. Well... it'd have to be a lot of money.

Point is, I have a strange relationship with horror. I'm dabbling in a genre that flirts with horror. All the occult lore, the demons, the monsters, it's all there. And, to be honest, the idea of horror fascinates me to no end, but I just can't engage myself in it. Was it because I watched that Pink Elephants song in Dumbo as a child? Maybe it's because I was an early victim of those screamer internet pranks as a teen. Point is, I really want to produce something that's scary. Sometimes. I mean, how can I write a story with allusions to The Exorcist and not want to impart some measure of fear?

In the end I suppose I'll just have to write what I write. I'll have to hope that my twisted, disturbing images will suffice where I wish I could instill true horror. Because in the end, to write horror, I have to experience horror. And let's face it, that's not happening. I'm a coward.