Once upon a time there was a boy who wrote a Horror story for his eighth grade English class. He didn’t think much of it at first. He’d written it up in desperation and turned it in with the hopes of getting a D. Or maybe, sweet maybe, a rare C-. It was just one assignment among many, and one of the few he turned in.
The next day a girl he knew came up to him in the hall. She told him how good his story had been. According to her, his English teacher had read it before her class.
This mortified him. Despite the girl’s kind words, the only reason he could think for having the story read in class was as an example of what not to do when writing. It couldn’t have been that bad. Could it?
When the story came back to him, he thought there had to have been some mistake. There was an A on the page. That particular grade was for other people. Not for him. And not for a story he wrote.
It didn’t matter what he thought. Other people thought he could create. In time, he came to believe them.
From that day forward, he was doomed to become a Writer.
Since he loved Horror movies and Horror stories, he vowed to become a Master of Horror. He read everything he could on the subject. He sought out names like Robert Bloch and Richard Matheson, Stephen King and Dean Koontz, Ramsey Campbell and James Herbert, H. P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe. If there was a How-To book on the subject he read it. If there was an essay analyzing the subject he sought it out.
But this was not the only avenue he pursued. Film after film, show after show, he buried himself in elder horrors, gruesome murders, and horrid violence. It came to a point that his parents thought he wouldn’t like a film unless there was a decapitation, or “Blood” in the title. And they might have been right.
After years of research, he knew far more about the art of Horror than anything he should have learned at school. With this information, he felt he could write stories that chilled the soul and curled the marrow of readers everywhere. Dark tales would bring him his due.
So he started writing comedic Fantasies more and more.
He’s not quite sure how that worked.
From that heady day in the hall to this, there have been shiny moments of glory for the boy, now a man. But one moment has, so far, eluded him: Publication. While it was true he had some things published (a sketch and an essay, respectively), he has no stories out in the world. Self doubt has crippled him for the majority of his life, preventing him from achieving his lifelong dream.
But through this blog (and another), he has seen improvement. Such improvement. Until, at last, he begins to see a time when he might well achieve all he hopes for.