Regular readers of the blog (if there is such a thing
here at SUR) will know that I’m not a huge horror fan. It’s something I’ve
actively avoided in my fiction for years. There are a few reasons for this. I’m
generally not too keen on the esthetics of the genre. Slasher films as a whole
and specific film series of the “torture porn” variety like Saw and Hostel where the examples of the genre that popped up in my head
when I thought of horror. The biggest reason for my dismissal of the whole
thing is that I came to it with preconceived notions of what any given book or
movie would be when it’s labelled as horror. I watched those movies and
attempted to read those books with the intent of finding those things I didn’t
like as a way to prove that yes, indeed, horror as a genre is a piece of shit
and it is best avoided.
I’ve reconciled with a lot of that thanks to Stephen
King, particularly thanks to one of his most famous books Salem’s Lot. I mentioned some of that in my review of the book and
there was certainly something cathartic bout the whole admission of guilt and
wrongdoing towards the genre. It’s still occasionally difficult to admit that I
was so dismissive. I dismissed it all, regardless of when or where a piece of
horror fiction came from, it all ended up in the same space in my brain: the
trash bin.
