Selana: Wednesday Addams wrapped in a Luna Lovegood candy shell
When I was a wee lass of, oh, about 7 or 8 (how old are kids in 2nd grade?) I had to do my first book report. It was a worksheet kind of like this:
I'm sure a few of you remember the style. It folded in half like a book, and you had to draw a picture for the cover on the front, answer questions about the book in the middle, and on the back, write a review. "I liked this book because it was funny. You should read it if you like funny books." My first book report led to my first parent teacher conference, wherein my mom started getting a lecture from my teacher. "Ms. Holloway," they said. "If you're going to do your daughter's homework, you really should choose a more realistic book." they said. Problem was, my mom hadn't read The Shining by Stephen King yet.
It had been in her stack from the library, but I'd finished my books and started on hers. They didn't believe that I 1) was capable of reading an adult novel and 2) that I would have finished it. They grilled me about aspects of the book, handed me textbooks and teacher's manuals off of the office shelves, and then the meeting turned into a lecture that my mom should police what I read, as The Shining is highly inappropriate for a 2nd grader. To her credit (every child is different and your mileage may vary, I'm not suggesting you start reading Clive Barker to Junior at bedtime),
she argued that if I had questions or concerns, I knew to come to her, and that she wasn't damn well going to tell me to STOP reading something if I liked it, nor was she going to insist I dumb myself down to please them. I enjoyed Stephen King, Louis L'Amour, and Laura Ingalls Wilder in equal measure, and until it had an adverse effect on me, she didn't see a problem.
From reading to watching, my love of horror only grew. I didn't have the best childhood, and horror was an escape for me. Disney was fun, but seemed unrealistic in a way that depressed me, because I knew very well that there was no happily ever after, even at a young age.
Drama went largely over my head. Horror appealed to me because I knew it was fake, I knew I was safe, but it was so over the top that it was an escape. My parents fighting wasn't nearly as bad as being murdered by a man with a melted pizza face and knives for fingers,
and getting made fun of in school had nothing on a Shatner-faced lurker that always managed to get in the house.
Also, there was that thrill of adrenaline when a cat gets thrown across the screen and you jump and relax into nervous laughter, relieved that it's just a dumb cat-WAIT OHMIGOD HE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU AHHHHHHHH-too late.
Movies led to soundtracks which led to the discovery of new sounds. I found Dead Man's Party and Bela Lugosi's Dead and Cemetery Gates and Burn and Spellbound and Your Best Nightmare and Living Dead Girl and the list goes on. I definitely think that The Horror of Our Love and Join Me in Death are gorgeous love songs, and maybe that's twisted, or maybe it's perfect. *dreamy sigh* #stillabetterlovestorythanTwilight
If I wasn't reading or watching or listening to something creepy, I loved the immersion of horror video games. My current obsession is Five Nights at Freddie's
but I cut my teeth on the first Resident Evil, the game that broke my first controller (when I freaked out and threw it across the room!).
Also, anyone remember that old Nightmare VHS game? Oh, happy memories... My embrace of horror is multi-faceted. What began as interesting stories and escape from a crappy childhood has turned into a lifelong love. Maybe my mom should have stopped me from reading above my grade level and not let me rent Lost Boys every weekend in Middle School, or maybe she did everything right.