Well, I’m finally here. The world of blogging. I feel like I’ve put this off for way too long, like I’ve been hiding inside my coffin, and now I’m tipping the lid to survey the world beyond my comfort zone. Though I am excited to venture into this world, I’ve been afraid to take these first few steps.
But here I am, jumping right in.
I am a writer. I’ve been doing it for a long time. I can still recall being in middle school and writing stories and poems that I felt reflected the world around me. And it was a scary world, still is. One day in 8th grade, I got called to the school counselor because of a poem I wrote about being a social outcast. Though I didn’t feel like I fit into that category at the time, I wanted to express the feelings of my peers that struggled to fit in each and every day. Apparently, I was good at it.
But before I was a writer, I was a reader and an avid movie-goer. My genre of choice: horror. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff. When I think back to all of the horror flicks my parents let me watch, I can’t imagine allowing my own future children the same pleasures. But I’m glad they did. I was hooked, fascinated with fear. I watched rerun after rerun of the old Twilight Zone episodes, every cheesy Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street sequel, Tales from the Crypt, etc. They scared me but I loved it. When the lights were off, and I was tucked away in bed, I waited for my Teddy Ruxpin to start talking like Chucky did in Child’s Play, despite the fact that I had removed his batteries. I refused to turn on the lights, though. I wanted–needed–to feel the fear.
I’m not sure when I started reading, but it’s something I can’t recall not doing. I was in elementary school when my Mom bought me my first Goosebumps book. As I turned the last page, an overwhelming realization struck me: books could offer me the same feeling as films did. I couldn’t help but think that after I closed my book at night, the characters might jump from the page and into my bedroom, even once I’d finished the story. I asked my parents to buy every single one as they came out. This evolved quickly into reading authors like Stephen King and Dean Koontz. I discover more authors every day, but I must acknowledge those two for how much they have influenced me.
With my love of fear, and my rediscovered ability to manipulate that emotion through writing, I found my happy place in writing horror.
I will spare you the details of my experimental writings–those in which I attempted humor and romance (among others). Let’s just say that I ventured into many unknown territories in an effort to refine my craft. These efforts were fruitful, but the genres were not for me. I am back where I belong in the dark world of the macabre.
As I stand here, holding that lid, contemplating sneaking back into my coffin, I know that I have to let go. I have to venture into this blogging world. What will I bring with me? The darker side of life, what inspires my writing, and what makes people scared. Hopefully, some readers will begin to embrace fear the way I do. Look for stories, as well. I can’t wait to share some with you.
Cheers to fears,
M. R. C.