Which is really bizarre, since that’s the kind of thing I write.
I had to swear off Stephen King after just 3 books, I had to proclaim to my husband that we would no longer go to horror movies, I have to go to my happy place just after hearing descriptions of certain films or books. I can’t do it. My brain just repeats the horrible images over and over, but in my head, it’s me in there, not an actor or imaginary character. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. Not for a night or two, but for weeks sometimes.
A friend asked me, “what are you scared of? It’s just imaginary.” My reply: “Because if someone can think of that to put in a movie, someone, somewhere, at some point in time, has actually done that to someone for real.” He said, “thanks for ruining my imagination forever.”
It’s true, and it’s disturbing, but that’s not the whole thing. Even history lessons about cudgel plays and witch burning bother me, but not like reading a book or watching a movie about the same thing, being inside the character’s head with them, seeing it, even if only in my own mind.
Is this a writer thing? After all, what I do when I write is put myself in my character’s shoes. I become them when I’m trying to nail down a scene. So maybe I can’t help but become these fictional victims in others’ stories?
Well, that doesn’t make any damn sense, because my own stories don’t scare me. Sometimes they make me a little uncomfortable, but they don’t scare me. I don’t write horror, but I have some nasty stuff happen to my characters. Other people have said they didn’t want to keep reading because they were too disturbed. Including my mother, who let me watch “Aliens” when I was ten because she didn’t think it was scary. (I didn’t sleep for a month.)
So what is going on here? I haven’t the slightest idea. I’d love to come up with some sort of theory, but I don’t have one. For some reason, fear and pain and blood when I make it up isn’t scary, but when other people do, it is. And when I make it up, I usually research it so the badness is as real as I can make it. So it’s not like I don’t read or hear about terrible accounts of violence.
Maybe I’m just a big old weirdo. That’s not news to me, though.
Anyone else have this disconnect in their art and in themselves? Maybe not the scary thing, but maybe you hate fluffy happy endings but can’t seem to write any other way? Anyone? Am I alone here?
Hello?
*scurry into a room where there are other people*
