I write fiction and I guess that’s cool. When I tell people I’m a writer, their eyes light up and they get all googly and stuff. Then they inevitably ask what kind of fiction I write and I inevitably tell them, “Horror.” Then the light in their eyes inevitably dies and their stares get all inevitably glossy.
See, I write horror, and I guess that’s not so cool.
It makes me a little afraid…you know, that someone might stumble upon my book on Amazon, like the cover and think it’s something in the realm of Goosebumps, then buy it and gasp in…dare I say it?…horror. Because, guess what? I write horror.
I think about my teenage years, when I was all Anne Rice and Stephen King, and I remember someone telling me once that what I was reading didn’t really count. One day, I thought, they’re going to be teaching Stephen King in some literature class, say in 113 years or so, and call his work classic American Lit.
So yes, I do write horror. And I like to think I write it well. I like to think that I somehow made somebody think, that come 113 years or so, someone will be thinking about it too. And that they’ll gasp in…dare I say it?…horror. Because the world isn’t all roses and lemon verbena…and shoot, someone ought to remind them.