Who Do You Wanna Be?

 

When I was growing up, I always read to escape. The thing was, my escapes weren’t exactly what you might expect. I used to go to bed at night reading R.L. Stine. I devoured vampire stories the way Dracula would take down a pint of O Positive after fasting for a month. Scary stories were my escape, and the protagonists were people who fascinated me.

 

When I think about Nora Goode from the Fear Street Saga or Alisa from Christopher Pike’s Last Vampire series, they weren’t always admirable people. Half the people in Fear Street had some sort of ulterior motives, and Alisa was five thousand years old. Not a whole lot an eight-year-old kid could relate to.

 

5000 years doesn’t look so hot. Mummy (Photo credit: seriykotik1970)

 

I read them anyway. I loved those characters. Even Daniel Fear, who had a distinctively murderous side.

 

Over the years, I’ve read a lot of less-than-desirable characters in books and watched them in movies.

 

I started writing my first serious novel when I was in high school. The characters were almost all noble, kind, and happy — or sardonic in a friendly sort of way. I got about a hundred and fifty pages into it before I realized that the whole thing felt naïve, and it was years before I figured out why.

 

People aren’t like that. The Super Shiny Folks in real life bug me just as much as they do in stories. Real human beings have inner (and outer) conflicts. They’re not perfect. Real humans have dust bunnies under the bed, skeletons in the closet, and pores that show when they look closely at themselves in the mirror.

Characters should be like real people. Sure, they might have superpowers or live in a zombie wasteland or prance about with fairies and unicorns, but they should be like people. They should have idiosyncrasies and nervous tics, soft spots for kitten bellies and saltwater taffy.

I also think that even the darkest protagonists (or the worst behaved) have aspects we can admire. Tenacity, maybe. Or the ability to speak their minds however over the top or larger than life their opinions really are. Characters can be role models even when they’re not admirable ones.

The next couple books I attempted took my characters to darker places. Gave them more nuance and depth and scuffed away at their shiny faςades. When I first finished watching all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I wanted to BE Buffy Summers.

Here’s the kicker: Buffy goes through some serious crap. She suffers tremendously. She gives up her life — twice — to save her loved ones and the world. She also makes the occasional very selfish decision and sometimes horribly treats the people she loves. And I still wanted to be her. She may be the archetypal hero, but she’s also a very flawed human being.

My goal as a writer is to create characters readers want to continue to go back to. Characters that pull readers into their world, into the muck and the torment that awaits them at the hands of plot. The only reason this works is because there’s some part of us that connects with these flawed, fictional personages. We might not want to model our lives after them, but we might admire the way they exercise their agency where we would fear to assert ourselves. We might wish we had their candor, their courage, their ability to shut it off and do what needs to be done.

So bring on the scruffy, the world-weary, the duty-worn, the heavy drinkers and the brazen narcissists — just give me a part of them that clicks with a part of me.

Which less-than-admirable characters do you relate to? Who keeps you coming back for more?

 

Listening to Fear

I remember reading once that we are born with two innate fears: loud noises and falling.

Every other fear we have is learned behaviour.

“Let’s go kiss some babies.” Scary Mask 10-24-2009a (Photo credit: Brendan O’s)

I’m not saying go test this out by dressing up as a grotesque monster dripping blood and cooing at some babies to see if they giggle or scream, but when I think about the things that scare me, they are things that I’ve learned.

I learned to fear spiders when I watched Arachnophobia at the age of four. I learned to fear clowns when I saw It at age eight, and I learned that dolls are creepy when I watched all the Child’s Play movies when I was six or seven. All of those things stuck with me because filmmakers and writers created something truly frightening.

Yup. The little freak still creeps me out. Creepy Chucky doll lashed to a bike (Photo credit: massdistraction)

For years, I would read R.L. Stine’s Fear Street books before bed and sleep just fine. Rotting purple flesh, decomposing cheerleaders, bodies hanging like pendulums — none of that scarred me for life, but it taught me to respect fear.

Fear is an emotion that’s made out of many series of psychosomatic impulses. It’s mind and body, working together to give you a wiggins. It’s why the image of a foreign finger tracing an ice cold line down the back of your neck is probably creepier than a knife by itself. Fear is something that is built up in the mind and expressed in responses of the body.

The great writers of horror, like H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, understand that creepy is a state of mind. Before you can make an audience jump or shiver or perspire, you have to lure them into your world. Here are a few of the ways to do that.

Creepy House on Mill Dam Rd (Photo credit: vork22)

Isolation

Are the scariest scenes set in crowds of bodies? Not usually. Most real horror involves isolation. Most often this is physical, but sometimes it is mental isolation. One of the first films I remember truly terrifying me was The Blair Witch Project. In that film, the three protagonists are isolated in the Maryland forests. Once it becomes clear that something scary is going on, they can’t seem to find their way out. They are in almost total isolation, stuck with a malevolent force.

This theme is also true in one of my new favourite shows, American Horror Story. In the first season, you have a family isolated in a home filled with dead people. They can’t sell it, and they can’t afford to move. In the second season, the show bridges both the inherent physical isolation of an asylum, but also integrates the mental isolation of the asylum’s masters and those imprisoned within its walls. A great example of mental isolation is the film The Craft, where the protagonist isn’t necessarily physically isolated, but the tension between her and her coven gradually increases her mental isolation from her family, her classmates, and her love interest.

Baby socks (Photo credit: Being a Dilettante)

The Unexpected

Sure, the image above isn’t that creepy by itself. But what if I told you it was taken at a crime scene? That would bring to mind questions. Who arranged those socks like that, and why? Were babies harmed? The unexpected isn’t about startling people into jumping high enough to bonk their heads on the ceiling. The unexpected is about putting something safe and familiar in a hostile context.

Some of the most iconic moments in horror stem from something unexpected. A child twitching a finger and saying, “Red rum” over and over again — who doesn’t remember the first time they realised he was saying MURDER backward?

Museum Collections Centre – 25 Dollman Street – cages – grandfather clock (Photo credit: ell brown)

Toy With Time

Fear is closely tied to suspense. Both are an anticipation of something to come, though fear has a more negative connotation. As writers, we have the unique ability to slow time and stretch out moments. Where fear and suspense in film are often heightened by details and focus on one thing (a long dark hallway, or silence), in writing you have to tie together multiple elements to create a truly scary scene.

Time can be slowed by zooming in on one detail. A fluttering curtain when all the windows are meant to be closed. Or it can be slowed by concentrating on a protagonist’s emotion, like the slickness of sweat on the back of his neck. The real magic happens when you strike the balance of giving the reader just enough to pull them from sentence to sentence while drawing out the moment of reward as long as possible.

Repetition

When done with care, weaving in a repetitive detail to a narrative can increase suspense. It can provide a reader with clues about when it’s time to be scared. In cases where repetition is used with extreme subtlety, it can foster a sense of foreboding without the reader even being able to pinpoint the reason for it.

An example of using repetition is what was done in the film The Ring. By the time you first saw the video in the film all the way through, you already associated the phone ringing with death and violence. When I first watched that film with friends, the phone happened to ring at that exact moment. We all screeched — wouldn’t you? This is one of the more obvious examples of repetition, but it can be a very effective technique no matter where you aim on the spectrum of subtlety.

Creating fear in a reader is a daunting task. It takes drawing on your own experiences as well as an understanding that just about anything can be frightening if you give it the proper attention. As writers, our words and stories can take people beyond the simplicity of loud noises and falling to deep psychological disturbance and pulse-pounding terror. It’s all up to how you use them.

What are your first memories of fear? What experiences do you draw on when you write scary scenes? How do you twist the mundane to push the reader in uncomfortable territory and then over the line into fear?