This is a short essay (2.5 printed pages) about my feelings on horror No comment
This is no fantasy. This is no fallacious delusion of a sick, twisted
mind. This is the honest-to-God truth. I love horror novels. Stephen King
and Edgar Allen Poe are my idols. Perhaps having these two, demented madmen
as my personal mentors sounds sick, but I tend to think as they do. Most of
my writings are short stories of horror (usually about the length of Poe's
'The Tell-Tale Heart' and 'The Masque of the Red Death'). My friends often
ask me four questions: 'Why do you not publish some of your work?' and 'Where
do you get your ideas from?' and 'What is it like writing this horror stuff?'
and 'Why do you like writing horror stories?'
First, I do not publish my work (although some writers at the Virginian
Pilot newspaper feel I should) because it's mine.
I know this sounds
selfish, but I'm being honest. A part of my personality goes into my work
and I feel if people read enough of my work, they will discover certain
personal feelings I would prefer to keep private.
-- Honesty Check...I also think my work sucks. --
As to where I get my ideas from for my sick excursions, I sincerely do
not know. Like Stephen King (who got the idea to write IT when looking off
of a bridge) I seem to receive my mad phantasms out of thin air. For
example, when I first began writing the first draft of this essay, I started
out writing about writing horror stories and ended up writing a short story
about a vampire in London. It is safe to say I get ideas out of thin air.
When I do capture the intangible, I literally...