Imagine a young boy sitting with his family watching the film Halloween two days before the actually holiday. It is his first time watching a "scary" movie, and he is completely thrilled with it. Never before has he seen the threat of death expressed so blatently. Of course, he had seen Wily Coyote blown up dozens of times, but he always comes back to life. This film is expressing that when real people die, they don't come back. He goes to bed that night, but doesn't fall asleep for hours. He's busy checking the shadows for a man in a dark blue jumpsuit and white mask (because he didn't die at the end). Waiting for him to fall asleep so that he can bury his blade in the boy's chest. When sleep does overtake him, the man in the white mask still stalks him. The boy wakes up the next morning wanting more.
He loves the terror and suspense and soon becomes enthralled with anything horrific and begins reading the "Goosebumps" series.
It is then that he realizes how much he loves to read. It is then when he decides that he wants to be the one telling the story. It is then that he decides that he wants to be the one that makes people hear bumps in the night, leave them wondering what lurks in the shadows. It is then that he decides he wants to write horror fiction.
Writing is a horror novel on a dusty shelf. It is a package of pencils waiting to be bought at the general store. Writing is paper still in the pulp of a gnarled black oak tree. It is a circle, you can always come back to it. Writing will always accept you if you accept it.
Writing is short...