Horror and the Writer

From studying horror fiction, I have realised that in most academic writings about horror, theorists and writers acknowledge why people read horror and how reader-response theory can be attached to the genre, but they rarely place devout focus upon the writer. Mallon and Kirsch adopt this approach, claiming ‘the unknowability of… [the writer] is a key ingredient in his greatness’ (2014). This practice of neglecting the writer merges with New Criticism (click here)  which examined the formal elements in texts to gather meaning from the text only. In all honesty, when I am reading horror fiction, I do not explicitly think what was the intention behind this piece and how has the writer used their experience to make fear operate within it? Instead, I think how has this piece reflected upon my own experiences? However, is bypassing the intention of the writer neglecting the very psychoanalytical nature of horror writing?

When I read a text, I think of my own experience and knowledge and how such writing has revived feelings which have been hiding underneath my denial for years. For example, Pullman’s ‘Video Nasty’ reminded me explicitly of a memory I had been attempting to forget – sitting with friends watching my first horror movie. I now know this is a memory I will never forget.

This is mostly because the text offers evidence proving how such startlingly memorable events will always haunt the subconscious, ‘”Snuff Park,” said Martin… “You seen it?” The boy shrugged again and said “Yeah”. He wasn’t looking down at any of them, but down at the pavement. He scuffed the broken glass with one foot’ (Pullman, 1994: 556). This is especially due to how peer pressure operates as an untameable force which inevitably and ironically ushers us into our own uncertainty and fear, ‘Martin twisted his mouth. Kevin, behind him, said, “He’ll never take it. He’ll never take the pressure”‘ (Pullman, 1994: 558).

However, for us to be able to reflect upon these experiences in the first place, writers must exploit their own knowledge and experience to create writing that will be effective and believable – writing that will explore fear in its most natural, memorable and understandable form and startle the mind with its persistence (click here).

So, if we are not only just reflecting on our own experiences and knowledge, but on experience and knowledge of the creator, why do we only focus upon ourselves? Is it because we are selfish, or simply naïve?

Scanlan classifies such neglect as obscene, suggesting writers use their experience to become ‘remnants of a romantic belief in the power of marginalised persons to transform history’ (2001: 2).

However, academics neglect Scanlan’s thoughts about how the writer’s intentions are vital in uncovering the meaning of the piece, instead exploring only the whole instead of the individual. This is perhaps one of the biggest mistakes of all. Writing about personal, truthful fear is a problematic operation. We must delve into details that are harmful not only to our readers, but to our minds and memories. As Marano claims, ‘It can be dangerous to capture in words what skulks in the Mirkwood of you head’. He refers to Guy de Maupassant who ‘[was] tortured by what he imagined’ and ‘died crazy’ from ‘slit[ting] his own throat’ (2007: 54).

Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)

Alternately, other reporters draw focus to Poe, claiming that his life remains indistinguishable from the content of his writings:

Plagued all his life by scandals and rumours, dogged by depression, prey to terrible fantasies and even more terrible phobias, his writing reflects the madness in every lover’s heart, the dark side of desire, the terror of being consumed alive by something half-goddess, half-beast (Telegraph Reporters, 2016).

Therefore, if writers constructed narratives upon how something became so closely intertwined with their subconscious, shouldn’t we assess the impact of fear on the psyche of the writer rather than on that of ourselves?

After all, horror is all about the mind. It is based upon how we present, deal with and accept fear. Therefore, to neglect the writers mind is arguably to neglect the meaning behind the narrative. Is it not true that if we misinterpret what the writer meant and what messages they wanted to convey, then we are misinterpreting the meaning of how fear operates in the piece altogether?

Sources:

Anon (2014) ‘How Important is the Author When Reading a Book?’. Available at: https://www.quora.com/How-important-is-the-author-when-reading-a-book

Mallon, T. and Adam Kirsch (2014) ‘When We Read Fiction, How Relevant Is the Author’s Biography?’ Available at: http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/29/books/review/when-we-read-fiction-how-relevant-is-the-authors-biography.html?_r=0 [accessed 22 November 2016].

Marano, M. (2007) ‘Going There: Strategies for Writing the Things That Scare You’ in On Writing Horror, ed. by Mort Castle, Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books.

Pullman, P. ‘Video Nasty’ (1994) in The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories, ed. by Peter Haining, London: Robinson, 2007.

Scanlan, M. (2001) Plotting Terror: Novelists and Terrorists in Contemporary Fiction, United States: University Press of Virginia.

Telegraph Reporters (2016) ‘Edgar Allan Poe: The Master of Horror Writing’. Available at: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/authors/edgar-allan-poe-the-master-of-horror-writing/ [accessed 18 November 2016].

Horror and Location

Over the summer, I read King’s ‘Salem’s Lot (click here). I read it in the desolate country, sitting next to a window which led into the great unknown. There is a reason why this is my favourite novel; not only because it fits under the Horror genre, but because it genuinely scared me. As I read about Ralphie and Danny Glick passing through the barren woods and Mike Ryerson, a newly-formed vampire, standing at Matt Burke’s window, I couldn’t help but look around myself and think. Here I was, hidden away from the world. Just like Ralphie and Danny were before fate started to chase them. And right next to me was a single-glazed window, surely thin enough to become an entryway for a vampire.

‘Salem’s Lot (1979)

‘Salem’s Lot (1975)

At the time, I couldn’t identify why I felt scared, but looking back, it seems so apparent. I was scared because I was reading in a place perfectly like the one depicted in the novel. Ever since, I’ve been reminiscing about this fact.

Now, does my fear suggest that it’s the text which makes itself frightening through the location depicted or the location it is read in? Or, in different terms, is it the merging of both?

According to Castle, writers as well as readers must be familiar with (either have been to, are reading in or know about) the locations textually presented. As he claims, ‘to yank readers into… [their] waking nightmare[s]… and keep them there’ (2007: 87), writers must ‘write about what… [they] know’ (2007: 84) and ‘convey to… [their] readers what… [they] see everyday’ (2007: 84). This will enable ‘readers [to] relate to the ordinary without having to work at establishing that relationship. And thus, readers will find your setting credible, as they must’ (2007: 85). As Castle claims, this ensures ‘horror happens’ (2007: 85).

Davis agrees with Castle, claiming:

‘Writers such as… [King are] able to examine the human condition most effectively when describing the regions most familiar to them… King, like his literary predecessors, has also claimed an American region of his own – Maine, an area of the country of which King is an intimate part – as a setting for his exploration of humanity’ (Davis, 1994: 31).

However, in this second case, it is likely that the writer only has been to Maine, not the reader. Therefore, if people have not been to and are not reading in (therefore, are not familiar with) the locations depicted in the literature, does this pose problems? It certainly did in my case. For example, when reading stories in The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories, I did not feel perturbed whatsoever. The thought of being ‘led… step by step through a story so dark in horrors’ (Benson, 1903: 38) and envisioning ‘Bellasis’ chamber [whereupon]… seven chairs… had been overthrown, and the furniture was in chaotic disorder’ (Gray, 1918: 64) was enough to feel creepy and strange. But such unfamiliar locations were not enough to make me feel scared. I have never even approached a destination depicted in many of these stories, let alone read in one of them. In fact, I read both stories in the library – a place crammed with computers and people, inextricably far apart from the isolated, forgotten places depicted in these stories. Therefore, the world within them just didn’t seem to exist. I couldn’t even fathom what my senses would be experiencing if I was there. Lebbon classifies senses as a vital device in familiarising ourselves with terror: ‘I hope it’s presence makes some scenes more laden with tension. If you can’t see the danger, but can smell it, how close can it be?’ (2016). As Lucavics alternately claims, ‘[location is] a darkened lens to experience the story through; instead of just imagining the marsh, you can smell it, feel the heaviness of the humidity, experience the chill of the fog drifting around your ankles’ (2015). But I just couldn’t seem to detract myself from where I physically was at that very moment.

Due to such experience, I would argue that where we read is vital. If we have been to the place presented in the story but are not directly reading in it, the narrative may be effective. But if we have never been in, let alone read in, any of these locations, we will probably feel detached from the story. If we are so set apart from the setting, then why do we even insist on finishing the story? Is it because we still care about the characters or because we have read too much to give up? I guess this is a question for another time.

Sources:

Benson, A. C. ‘The House at Treheale’ (1903) in The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories, ed. by Peter Haining, London: Robinson, 2007.

Castle, M. ‘Reality and the Waking Nightmare: Setting and Character in Horror Fiction’ in On Writing Horror, ed. by Mort Castle, Cincinnati, Ohio, Writer’s Digest Books, 2007.

Davis, J P. (1994) Stephen King’s America, Ohio: Bowling Green State University Popular Press.

Gray, A. ‘The Everlasting Club’ (1918) in The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories, ed. by Peter Haining, London: Robinson, 2007.

King, S. (1975) ‘Salem’s Lot, United States: Doubleday.

Lebbon, T. (2016) ‘Six Facets of Terror: The Senses in Horror’. Available at: http://www.thebookseller.com/feature/six-facets-terror-senses-horror-339361 [accessed 24 November 2016].

Lucavics, A. (2015) ‘Setting Atmosphere and Creating a Creepy Tone in Horror Fiction’. Available at: https://blog.whsmith.co.uk/amy-lucavics-setting-atmosphere-and-creating-a-creepy-tone-in-horror-fiction/ [accessed 24 November 2016].

The Nature of Horror

I find that whenever I discuss the topic of horror with others, I am faced with backlash and controversy: ‘Why do you want to talk about horror? It’s just a lot of meaningless gore. It’s not always nice to try and scare people’. The apprehension and annoyance associated with horror fiction has always seemed strange to me, as well as associating horror (especially body horror) with simplicity and meaninglessness. Ciabattari does this by asking of Stephen King, ‘should [we] take King seriously?’ (2014) and by claiming that he is a ‘guru of gore’ (2014).

Similarly, in an interview, Balshaw claims that, ‘the body has [always] been a constant theme in stories of horror and the supernatural’ (2012) and is all that horror can offer. The utilisation of body horror dates back to the Greeks, whereupon the ‘demonised spirit… [of] Phrike’ existed who was said to possess a blade and torment people with it. As Atsma outlines, ‘Phrike was [said to be]… the personified spirit (daimona) of horror and trembling fear. She was a mere severe form of Phobos (Fear) and Deimos (Terror)’ (2016). However, if we think only about how the genre depicts ‘the latest gory slice of body horror… [only to make] shockwaves’ (Balshaw, 2012), doesn’t this stop us from acknowledging how horror can educate the mind by conveying psychoanalytical messages that will prove intriguing to the human subconscious?

I believe it is problematic to associate horror writers with the surface layer of ‘meaningless’ gore, especially because it is primarily through displays of physical horror itself that these psychoanalytical messages about ourselves and our fears are conveyed. (click here)

For example, in King’s ‘The Cat from Hell’, (click here) it is only after Halston is overpowered by the cat that we truly acknowledge the uninformed nature of our position as human beings. As humans, we undeniably consider ourselves the most superior race. However, the inclusion of a cat crawling down a throat and poking its face out of flesh forces us to face the realisation that, in reality, anything has the potential to come and overpower us. This does not have to be a generic and ‘characterless killer [from a]… slasher movie’ (Jones, 2002: 101).

As well as forcing us to question our placement, positioning and superiority, body horror encourages reconsideration of our sense of judgement and certainty regarding the uncontrollable. This is proved whereupon Halston considers Drogan’s assertion for killing as a joke, ‘I ought to kill you for that, old man. I don’t take a joke’ (King, 2009). King even later claims that Halston ‘was surprised to find that he was taking it seriously as a hit’ (2009), showing us the flawed nature of what it means to be human and that this flawed nature could lead to drastic circumstances. In this sense, King’s narrative stands as a warning.

Due to such narratives conveying messages about what it really means to be human, is it reasonable to argue that, due to body horror seeping under its surface layer, horror is much more meaningful than is usually assumed? Body horror does not just exist to frighten. Instead, it exists to educate people about the nature of their own fear through the way it is depicted. What we can see – and what is above or on the surface – is assumed to be the reality.

However, to find the nature of our own fear, we must look beyond the surface layer of gore in the narrative and consider how the piece frightens us in relation to how exactly the gore is utilised. We must consider how such utilisation operates around our own fears, and why it is effective in exploiting us within them. Arguably, there are many messages behind seemingly ‘meaningless’ and gory horror that teach us about our own nature of fear and what it means to be human. Even though they may appear harder to find or understand in the piece, it does not mean they do not exist and it does not mean they are not really there.

Sources

Atsma, A J. (2016) ‘Phrike’. Available at: http://www.theoi.com/Daimon/Phrike.html

Balshaw, S. (2012) ‘The Flesh is Evil and Must Be Punished! Your Guide to Body Horror from Page to Screen’. Available at: http://www.mancunianmatters.co.uk/content/28095667-flesh-evil-and-must-be-punished-your-guide-body-horror-page-screen [accessed 17 November 2016].

Ciabattari, J. (2014) ‘Is Stephen King a Great Writer?’ Available at: http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20141031-is-stephen-king-a-great-writer [accessed 15 November 2016].

Jones, D. (2002) Horror: A Thematic History in Fiction and Film, London: Hodder.

King, S. (2008) ‘The Cat from Hell’ in Just After Sunset, London: Hodder and Stoughton.

Lavery, K. (2016) ‘Horror: It’s More Than Frights and Gore’. Available at: http://www.scifiandscary.com/horror-frights-gore/ [accessed 24 November 2016].

Moore, D. (2013) ‘The Cat from Hell (1990)’. Available at: http://www.cdennismoore.com/news-events/cat-from-hell-1990/ [accessed 24 November 2016].

Horror and Me

It has recently occurred to me that one of the most striking things about contemporary horror is how it is inseparable from the everyday. From re-watching ‘now-classic’ horror movies from the 70’s up until the 2000’s, I have become well-acquainted with the don’t-look-under-the-bed, he’s-right-behind-you thesis’ that spiral in continuity from one narrative to another. As Freese claims:

The horror field is riddled with clichés. The house that’s for sale too cheaply, the guy who must be working nights because he sleeps during the day… the attic room the landlady keeps locked, the place none of the topers in the village inn will visit after dark – we can all have fun recognising these and many others (2013).

Undoubtedly, such narratives focus upon how horror is a presentation of a different world. These narratives include Scream (click here) and Halloween (click here), which both depict slasher worlds and narratives which are generic and overused. Even though these narratives could be true to life, because of their unoriginality, typicality and predictability, they are essentially unbelievable. We cannot emotionally connect with such films because there is nothing startling and original to connect ourselves to. In a review, Smith even goes so far as to completely disassociate Scream from an emotional perspective, suggesting that it is so unbelievably humorous, we do not care what happens to the characters:

The plot is pure horror hokum. A quiet town with a Mainstreet, USA feel is battered by a series of brutal murders, mostly of teenagers, which seem to be linked to some unsolved murderous malarkey a decade or more ago. The local adolescent population respond by having a party and are knocked off one by one (2000).

Scream (1996)

Halloween (1978)

It was when I first read Stephen King that my all-too-conventional, traditionalist perspective of horror spiralled into disbelief and shock. I was (and I am) ashamed to admit that this is what horror was to me – a different world. It had nothing to do with me or the way I lived my life, so I read it for leisure and would forget about it almost immediately. But I can no longer accept this is how horror operates – especially not after reading King’s ‘A Very Tight Place’ which propelled my own fear of claustrophobia into extremity.

Claustrophobia, for me, has always been one of those things which I do not speak about. I think about what it would be like to become trapped in a small place, but I never speak about it.

In ‘A Very Tight Place’ (click here), King does talk about it. He takes an everyday man in an everyday problem and places him in an everyday object which he cannot get out of. It sounds simple enough. Ineffective, even. But this word everyday has so much more power than I knew. Perhaps it was this effective because I was not expecting such a situation or response, or perhaps because it took one of my worst fears and exploited me within it.

However, almost every story in Just After Sunset hit me with the same unfamiliar feeling of uneasiness. From re-examining the stories, I found a running theme: how we are forced to face what horror would look like if it came into our own lives. It then became obvious. This was what made them effective.

As Castle claims, effective stories ‘take… reality, heaps of it, to create and populate a story realm that gives the readers the frights royale’ (2007: 83). King conforms to this, taking everything unconventional and intertwining it with reality. As stated, ‘“A Very Tight Place” is a character-driven tale about normal people in bizarre circumstances – as always, the type of story Stephen King writes best’ (Anon, 2008).

Through such merging of the everyday and the unconventional, King conforms to Castle’s assertion that ‘[you must] write about what you know… when the ordinary is invaded by the terrifyingly extraordinary, horror happens’ (2007: 84-85).

Therefore, there is no longer a different world, but reality encompassed with spiteful horror. There are no more castles, or distinguishable sharp-teethed creatures. Instead, there is horror which exists in our everyday lives, and hides underneath the surface. What is more threatening than what we are oblivious to?

King exploits this, reminding us that our certainty is a myth. There is always the brutal fear of possibility that threatens the certainty we centre our lives around. We are merely subjects of consequence, trapped in fate’s game of what if…?

Sources:

Anon (2008) ‘A Collection Critique’. Available at: http://charnelhouse.tripod.com/justaftersunset.html [accessed 22 November 2016].

Castle, M. (2007) ‘Reality and the Waking Nightmare: Setting and Character in Horror Fiction’ in On Writing Horror, ed. by Mort Castle, Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books.

Freese, C. (2013) ‘The Horror Genre: On Writing Horror and Avoiding Cliché’s’. Available at: http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/the-horror-genre-on-writing-horror-and-avoiding-cliches [accessed 15 November 2016].

Halloween. DVD. Directed by John Carpenter. United States: Compass International Pictures, 1978.

King, S. (2008) ‘A Very Tight Place’ in Just After Sunset, London: Hodder and Stoughton.

Scream. DVD. Directed by Wes Craven. United States: Woods Entertainment, 1996.

Smith, A. (2000) ‘Scream Review’. Available at: http://www.empireonline.com/movies/scream/review/ [accessed 22 November 2016].