Go to Amazon and see the 18 books I have there. I’ve been writing poems and short fiction since I was 12 (getting close to 33 now). I started writing seriously in 2009, have completed two novels, a novella and fifteen short stories, all of them with various word count. I still rhyme, just for the hell of it, and currently got my dream job: I am an editor at a local newspaper. How cool is that?
The question I heard a lot is, “how you do it?”
The truth is, there is nothing otherworldly about writing. You just have to sit your ass down and let your fingers do the job. My beginnings in the writing arena occurred while I had nine-to-fives. Many of them. I can’t sleep whatever number of hours the doctor says I have to sleep because my brain is an entity of its own and does what it pleases. For the last nine years of my life I have worked hard, preparing myself for the life I am living right now.
The life of a full-time writer.
I review and self-publish horror, and I’m thinking about directing a workshop for aspiring horror writers in the near future. Furthermore, I like to read the Horror Writers Association Blog to make sure I don’t miss out on what’s new and hot in the horror community. I’ve developed this weird fascination with the dark side ever since I was a kid, but I still find people who ask the question, “So, what kind of horror you like?”
I always thought I knew the answer to that question.
The meaning of the word ‘Horror’ has metamorphosed throughout the years, pretty much like Gregor Samsa in Franz Kafka’s unforgettable The Metamorphosis. People back then didn’t call it ‘Horror Fiction,” even though the thought of turning into a giant roach kept me awake many nights in a row. People called this ‘Absurdist Fiction,’ allegedly because it was merely a narrative that focused on situations where the main character cannot find any purpose in life.
Well, that’s absurd.
The look on the faces of people when I tell them I’m writing a Transgressive Fiction series is priceless. There was even an asshole that said, “What? You’re writing a transvestite series?”
I said, “Fuck you!” and then gently explained what I meant.
In a way, I expected him to be ignorant. I’m 33 and still don’t know shite about many things. Who am I to judge?
This literary movement, albeit simple, it’s difficult to explain. It’s about anorexic models who think they’re fat. It’s about rich assholes who party too hard. It’s about junkies who think they own the fucking world. It’s about poor miscreants who dare to dream too much. It’s about sex. Rough sex.
And often, it is also about death.
The Free Dictionary dot com defines ‘fear’ as a very unpleasant or disturbing feeling. Although philosophers and Vulcans insist that fear is irrational, they can’t help to feel it as well. As an evolutionary survival tactic, fear is tattooed in our genes and, as far as you know, mankind hasn’t come up with a laser strong enough to extinguish it. Fear is akin to an addiction. You know it’s bad for you, but you keep coming back for more. Over and over again.
I grew up on Stephen King’s Children of the Corn and Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire. Also, on those sleepless nights that came every other day, my mom’s version of a lullaby feature stories of La Llorona and El Chupacabras; I often wonder why she still doesn’t understand why I am so screwed up. Such was my fascination with the supernatural that after watching The Looney Tunes with the entire family, I would stay awake, waiting for everyone to fall asleep, so I could go back to the living room and watch a late night scary movie. I consumed everything with so much gusto it wasn’t long after I started coming up with my own stories. Television wasn’t my only source. I also read. A lot. I often delve into other genres (mystery and transgressive fiction, to name some), but in the end, all of the stories I come across share a horror element.
Looking for more horrific material, I stumbled upon this blog. Read On.
Brian Evenson’s new novella, The Warren, opens with a declaration of documentation:
I shall begin this written record by reporting the substance of our last conversation—which was not only the last conversation I had with Horak but the last I had with anyone or ever expect to have.
Though the term “weird fiction” came into being in the 19th century—originally used by Irish gothic writer Sheridan Le Fanu—it was picked up by H.P. Lovecraft in the 20th century as a way, primarily, of describing his own work. Lovecraft produced copious amounts of the stuff, as you can see from our post highlighting online collections of nearly his entire corpus. He also wrote in depth about writing itself. He did so in generally prescriptive ways, as in his 1920 essay “Literary Composition,” and in ways specific to his chosen mode—as in the 1927 “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” in which he defined weird fiction very differently than Le Fanu or modern authors like China Miéville. For Lovecraft,
The true weird tale has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains according to rule. A certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces must be present; and there must be a hint, expressed with a seriousness and portentousness becoming its subject, of that most terrible conception of the human brain–a malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and the daemons of unplumbed space.