For me, writing is like the rain. Some days it drizzles and others it storms. On stormy days, my thoughts are running wild. During a drizzle, they are softly there. Other days I have droughts and cannot write a word. On these days, I just wait for the storm.
Once the storm hits, I find myself in front of my computer jabbing away at the keys. When the storm has settled once again I am either through a new script, short story, poem, etc. Each time I write, that storm is a little different but one thing that is always the same is the genre; horror.
Horror, being my desired theme, is quite strange for me. I am the 19-year-old who is still afraid of the dark. Yeah, you heard that right: the dark. It is frightening and unknowing, which brings on my fear. If I could see in the dark and was aware of everything's placement then things would be just fine. But, that is not the case. So instead of sleeping with the light on, or not sleeping at all, I write and I write horror. The images that pass through my mind are not stuck there due to my lasting love of the written word. The fears I have all turn into ink on paper.
My "fear writing" started in my first English college course. My professor told us to all pull out a sheet of paper and write a story with an atmosphere of horror. And so I did, and there created my outlet.
Their bodies were found drowned in the kitchen sink. Girl twins were they, not even old enough to say, “Momma.” Their momma wouldn’t have liked that anyway. With the screamin’ and cryin’ those babies momma knew she was gonna have kill em if she ever wanted sleep. Poor ole me though, I had to find 'em. With their peach bottoms turnt blue in the murky water, they floated, each on a different side of the sink; I could never let the mister know. So out I took em out and rang em dry. Those little, soft toes never did seem colder. As I dried em I think “What way to kill these babies again?” Just as I says it I swears I heard the dog yak. So there you have it, I took out a big ole kitchen knife and chop chop until just their heads were left. Then I throw em out for the dogs to gnaw and the bodies of those poor babies? Well I sure did stir em up with tomorrow’s stew.
Somedays I will fear something that is not the dark, commitment or growing older, and what I write for these days are not in the horror genre but still have the uncomfortable feel that horror brings. One of my most recent writings, "Mother's Care," was brought onto paper due to the fear of growing up and becoming a mother. Of course, I have a lot of time before that all happens but it is still a thought in mind.
CLICK – A mother smiling with a child in her arms.
No one would be able to tell how afraid Luna was to hold her newborn for the first time. In the camera lens she was smiling with her chin propped up, like a proud mother. Outside of the camera she was holding her chin up so as not to have the misfortune of seeing the child in her arms. Even though she had carried this baby inside of her for nine months, she felt as if the baby was an alien on a mission to destroy the human race. Not the entire human race, but one human in particular, her.
I am not, AM NOT, saying that I am always afraid of something, anything, but that yes, I have fears and these fears help fuel my writing. I am thankful for all of them, whatever fowl creatures crawl through my mind, I take and I create.
