Poetic Reflections: horror she wrote

“It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open . . . I beheld the wretch — the miserable monster whom I had created . . .” From FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.

I consider myself, first and foremost, a Horror writer both in poetry and prose. I have been an avid fan of the genre since I was not very tall. And the horror story that stood out in my youth was penned, rather astonishingly, by a Victorian Englishwoman. Despite my own fascination for the the morbid and macabre, I still find myself surprised that so-called “normal” women might love the same stuff too! It amazes and amuses me what non-crazy females (as opposed to the oddball types like me) are Horror fanatics — or even more strange, write gleefully of gruesome things.

This is not my mother’s era, when most ladies seemed more into flowers and going to the beauty shop, so just imagine how starkly Mary Shelley must have stuck out in her day! I wonder what traits or quirks she displayed that might have caused the people around her to wonder. Could she wiggle her eyeballs and stand on her head anytime, anyplace? Did her mom fret about Mary like mine worried about me? Did the girl hang out at graveyards, collect dead creatures from along the road to bury in her mother’s flower garden the way I did? Or run off to the forest with only a sackful of stuffed animals? Did she feel more at home in the woods with her aunt and grandparents than with her own family?

(To answer my questions, I conducted a bit of research on her life, then decided to dedicate a poem.)

Society tends to frown on those who exhibit a flair for uncommon albeit harmless behavior. When I was growing up, girls were supposed to dress and act in a certain specific manner. I wanted to be me, but my mom wouldn’t let me so we fought a lot.

I read FRANKENSTEIN when I was just a child, although it is not a children’s story. The novel is a brooding Gothic masterpiece that remains as powerful today as it ever was. Considered a forerunner of modern Horror, and Science Fiction, it is a timeless work inspired by elements from the author’s day and yet a true original; a classic that seeped into my psyche to remain a potent influence.

Now I am inspired by the unique art of Tim Burton, the dark visions of Neil Gaiman, the cleverness and success of J.K. Rowling. I have long relished the vivid horrors of greats like Edgar Allan Poe, Richard Matheson, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, F. Paul Wilson . . . I am also impressed by the talents of the indie authors who are my competitors. Fellow writers marketing their tales outside the exclusive circle of the major mega publishing giants that gobbled up all the rest of the big fish. I’ve seen many awesome books produced and promoted by highly capable self-pubbers like me, or those represented by smaller presses.

What of other women, my sisters in Horror? Ever since Mary Shelley led the way, few ladies have traced her indelible footprints to create real terror in the hearts of readers. I am as guilty as anyone, for I write in various genres including Horror and often incorporate humor. Which leaves me feeling dissatisfied, unfulfilled. Thus, I plan to devote more attention toward genuinely scaring readers, because I do love a good fright. Some of my poems are quite dark. However, I feel I can do better than the horror stories I have written. Perhaps I will always be striving for that goal.

These days there appears to be a revolution in Horror, with any number of rising female stars who may be the new Mary Shelleys, Shirley Jacksons, Anne Rices. There are numerous women I have met online who are publishing some pretty chilling plots. So move over, guys! We have arrived, and we are not going anywhere but up.

In honor of Women In Horror Month, I present some dark poems. And one for Mary, who died on the first of February . . .