Why horror?

It's the question I have been asked by most people who learn about my secret passion. Yes, I love horror. I love all kinds of horror. I have my limits, like everyone, but the fact that one can have their limits and still have access to a bounty of material speaks to horror's scope and relatability.

I suppose I could say that I never had a choice. My entire childhood was filled with Scooby-Doo, Courage the Cowardly Dog, Goosebumps, Are You Afraid of the Dark?, and Animorphs. One of the first bonding memories I have with my father was when he sat down with me and watched the 1979 version of Salem's Lot.

I was nine. I still have nightmares about Danny Glick floating outside that damn window. Love you too, Dad.

But it's deeper than that.

It's one of those universal human truths that writing classes love to preach. Every human being on this planet will experience two emotions. Love and fear. From these baselines, a myriad of possibilities open up and branch off into two distinct directions that have a particularly nasty habit of intertwining again. Is there a more horrifying experience than the loss of a loved one? For all the people who raise their eyebrows when they find out that not only do I love horror, I actively write it, I ask you this...what is the scariest thing you could possibly imagine?

If you really think about it, if you look deep enough into the dark rivers that house your fears, I'm willing to bet it's not a monster you fear. Or a vampire. Or even a serial killer. I'm willing to bet that it's the unimaginable. The indescribable. The straw that finally breaks you.

In the end, that's why I love horror.

It's honest.