Have you ever read anything that just made you want to propel yourself to the blank page and write a story?
Sure. I’ve had stories and essays inspire me to create and I’m often jotting down snippets of dialog or imagery in my Notes app, never to be seen again.
But have you ever read anything that made you want to stop writing?
Sure again. Sometimes you read something so good that you think there’s no point in doing anything else. It’s just not worth it. Reading The Auctioneer by Joan Samson made me feel that way.
But, but what about a story that is making you consider not writing in a particular genre anymore?
Yes. This week, in fact. And I’m pretty shaken up about it.
I started listening to Stephen King’s “A Good Marriage.” A novella from his Full Dark, No Stars collection because I had some busywork to do and it was relatively short. The narrator, Jessica Hecht, was good, though it took me a moment to get into the voice, but I was intrigued.
Look, before I go one, I’m GenX, I cut my teeth in King when I was a teenager. It’s not that I’m sensitive to horror. Or at least I wasn’t.
I ended up having to stop listening with about 30 minutes to go due to family obligations. The story bothered me in the same way that the over abundance of violent media as been bothering me of late. But I walked away knowing I’d come back and finish eventually.
I came back to the story last night to finish and there’s one reveal at the end, a description of a horrific act that broke me (iykyk) and I just couldn’t think anymore.
You could argue that it wasn’t necessary, that the character exploration that King is so fucking brilliant at was enough, was more than enough. You could argue that, but it’s not my story, and there’s no denying the visceral effect that addition had on me as a reader. That’s a success.
I’ve written before about how I am drawn to horror because of the absolute despair that it evokes. I thought that’s what I wanted. But not this.
I can’t do this anymore.
I lie in bed last night wondering what I wanted to do with this “horror/thiller” name, what was I trying to create here.
I thought that I wanted to switch to focusing on ghost stories or more ethereal threats. But I’m not sure I have the spine for even that anymore.
You can toss it up to current events. Which? All of them. Blame the constant flow of violence from all media streams. Blame the fact that even as we say “think of the children,” we as a community do not, in fact, give a fuck about the children or anyone else.
We are the hosts of evil in the world. That’s what King has been writing about all along, you know.
The monsters are us.
Who is “us?” All of us. (I may probably delete this section because it seems a bit preachy and I’m not entirely sure what point I’m trying to make. I’m a bit lost. I thought I knew myself.)
Essentially, something hurt my psyche and I don’t want to partake in this genre for a while. I’m not making a moral judgement, but a personal choice.
I’m not finding this cathartic as I once did. The escapism feels more like an escape room and I can’t leave. It’s not that the genre is bad, not at all. It’s just that in this season of my life, it’s not for me.
I am fully aware of the mountain of privilege I possess that allows me not to be a victim of the world’s actual horrors.
I’m putting this pen name in cold storage for now. Perhaps I can find a way to bring it back, but only if there’s something I really want to say. Swamp Stories is suspended and the Patreon will go dark.
To those of you who supported me in any way, thank you. Take care of yourselves.
I’ll still be creating and writing. I’ll just be over there, by the window, where there is a bit more light.
