Monday, October 31, 2011

Horror Writers Confess!

Confession time: Zombies scare the crap out of me 
by Michael Crane

Okay, so maybe it’s not a realistic fear. I mean, it’s not like there are zombies knocking on my door trying to get in (at least… I hope not!). Still, I can’t bring myself to watch zombie movies late at night because I know I’ll get nightmares—and this is coming from somebody who can’t remember his dreams! I don’t care what Roger Ebert says, even when they’re at their slowest they still manage to be menacing!

Maybe the thing that scares me the most about them is you can’t reason with them. There’s no begging for your life when it comes to zombies. Well, you could—but it’d be kinda pointless. A zombie has only goal, and that is to feast upon the living. That’s it. End of story.

And let’s be honest here. You can make fun of how slow and sluggish they appear to be (at least in the older movies they were), but imagining that your loved ones have turned into walking corpses is one hell of a scary picture.

Why do I write Horror?
by Daniel Pyle

Why do I write horror? That's the question people ask me most often. (Especially my mother-in-law and my children's pediatrician.) When they find out what kinds of stories I spend my free time creating, folks assume something terrible must have happened to me as a kid, that my parents kept me locked in a cage in the basement and put their cigarettes out on my fleshy bits, or bought me a kitten just to skin it in front of me and watch me cry, or put gravy in my hair and threw me in a pit with starving dogs, or…well, you get the idea. 
But the truth is, none of those things happened. My life has been full of love, support, encouragement, and un-skinned kitties. I don't write horror out of some perverse desire to get back at the universe. I write it—and read it—because it's emotionally charged and exciting. Horror opens a door to a world where your boring next door neighbor can grab a stake, slay a vampire, and become a hero, where the creaking in the attic might be mutated freaks watching you through holes in the ceiling, where every shifting shadow is a potential threat, where you could die a horrible, agonizing death, but where you're sure as hell alive before you do.
I'm a lucky guy. I get more than my fair share of comfort in real life. When I open up a book, whether it's one I'm reading or one I'm writing, I want to experience the other end of the emotional spectrum. I want to be scared. And I want you right there with me. Why is that? I hear you asking. Well, that's easy: I want you there so that when the maniac shows up with his rumbling chainsaw, I don't have to run faster than him, I only have to run faster than you.