*blows dust off of blog*
Wow, it's been awhile! Sorry Bloggy, I didn't mean to neglect you, I promise! Will you every forgive me?
*blog turns nose up and sniffs*
Ah... well, what can I do?
*scene fades into background gray*
I was not what one would call a 'normal' child. I spent a good deal of my youth, adolescence, and teenage years in my room, by myself. Playing with invisible friends, devouring a mixture of RL Stein, Christopher Pike, and The BabySitter's Club. Walking through the woods of my back yard, wondering what darker things lie beneath the trees. The only scary movie that ever scared me was The Dark Crystal (And it was bc of those damn puppets *shudders* blech) . I couldn't get enough of the fascinating beauty that was the shaded side of life. I was enthralled, entertained and I hungered for more.
Yes, I was afraid of Santa Clause, the dark and bugs. But that's not what molded my mind to work the way it is. I simply was born this way.
Where other girls were having tea parties, dressing up and playing barbies, running around carefree willy-nilly, I was playing funeral, "Go to The Hospital and Die," and my barbies were kidnapped, tortured and then they managed to find their way out of the horrid mess all on their own. I loved my barbies (so much so that I didn't stop playing with them until I was fourteen), I just played differently than other kids.
I don't know what caused my love of all things macabre, I don't know why my mind works this way. It simply does, and I'm proud of it.
Many people who truly know me aren't surprised. But if you see me on the street, you wouldn't know that I was a person who enjoyed the twisted and sick over a love story. I'm a petite, brunette with chocolate eyes that sparkle. I love life, I always want to help people, I want to give and I'm actually so peppy sometimes I make myself a little sick.
I have had people, close friends, ask "Why can't you write something happy?" I've had a parent ask what they did to make my mind this horrible way. And yet, I sit back and think what's wrong with the way I think? It's me... it's who I am, and I am not going to apologize for it. If I can accept it why can't they?
Why in the world do people have to judge one another? I write horror. It's what I do, most of my main characters wind up dead in my short stories. Or they wind up with severe damage. I think it's more real that way.
I was never a girl who believed in faerie tales because it always seemed like the princesses got the short end of the stick on many sides, happy endings with their man, who came to their rescue. That was never for me. I still get pissed when I watch Disney's version of Sleeping Beauty and Flora and Fawna give Brier Rose "Beauty" and "Song" before "Intelligence," I don't understand it now, and I didn't understand it then, even when I was six. Happily Ever After's don't exist in real life. There is no riding off into the sunset to live eternal bliss. That's just not how life works.
That is a part of the beauty of horror. While some of it is far fetched, there is a realness to it, an honesty that I have always truly respected, even when I was a child. Yes, it's fiction and fiction can be whatever we make it. But people, start remembering that just because we (horror writers/movie makers) think something, write it down and make it a story that doesn't mean that I'm actually going to chop my kids and husband up, bury them in the back yard, only to have their vengeful spirits come back to haunt me and drag me to hell... anyone who truly knows me knows that I'm a kitten. Sweet, lovable, cheery and I'm a good person.
Imagination is a wonderful thing and if we only stop looking at one another, let our minds work in they way the are supposed to, I would think that the world would be less harsh.
*Bloggy hugs Kara*
See! Now we've made up! Yay!
OH! And I've got a poem up at The Cynic Online! (sort of goes with the blog post.) Check it out when you get the time!