A Fear of Heights, and of Writing About my Fears
Possibly not for the reason you think
“What do you find most difficult about writing horror?” was the question, and I had no answer. This was in June of this year, at the Bronx Book Festival, where I was on a panel with Cassandra Khaw (The Salt Grows Heavy), Ness Brown (The Scourge Between Stars), and Anne Heltzel (Just Like Mother). Our moderator was writer and editor Danny Lore, who, of course, asked the aforementioned question.
In the moment, I couldn’t think of anything specific to horror that I found difficult, and said as much, which welcomed well-deserved and playful jokes about sounding like I had it all figured out, and nothing was a challenge for me. Couldn’t be farther from the truth, but what I thought at the time, and what I meant to say, was that the difficulties I could think of were all related to writing in general, as opposed to anything specific to the horror genre. (To be fair, I was also semi-distracted in the moment by my first ever “raving New Yorker loudly interrupts an event” experience.)
That was on a Saturday afternoon. Less than a week later, on the following Thursday, I was driving through the “deep dark hills” of Kentucky for the first time, on my way to Pittsburgh and Stokercon, and after I finally got to my destination for the night, I realized I had a better answer for Danny’s question.
As anybody who spoke to me at Stokercon probably knows already (sorry for talking your ears off), I don’t like heights. This is probably an understatement, but since my fear of heights isn’t nearly as possessive as it was when I was much younger, I’ve shifted from saying I’m afraid of heights to making it sound like me and heights just don’t get along.
“Sounds like a fun party, I’ll definitely come thr—wait, will heights be there? Oh…actually, I think I might have something else going on that night.”
I’ve bested my fear of heights in various ways over the years. I rode my first real roller coaster when I was a junior or senior in high school, largely so I wouldn’t look like a coward in front of a girl I liked (the one fear to rule them all for my teenage self). I’ve had to fly routinely for different jobs I’ve had for almost ten years now, so I got a prescription to help ease my anxiety while I’m flying. Even so, I never sleep well the night before a flight, and I’m not looking forward to flying across any oceans anytime soon. Or anytime later, for that matter.
Not crazy about being in the middle of massive bodies of water, either.
Anyway, how all of this relates to Danny’s question—“What do you find most difficult about writing horror?”—is that I struggle with writing about things that scare me the most. No, that’s not accurate: I’ve largely avoided writing about such things. Can’t encounter any difficulties if you don’t even try, right?
The reason I’ve dodged these topics in my writing isn’t that I’m too scared of them, however. Well, indirectly that could arguably be the case, but really I’m afraid that I won’t be able to write well about my greatest fears, because I won’t feel much need to expand on them. I won’t do a great job of selling the reader on why the character should be afraid, why the reader should be nervous for the character, and even hopefully feel some apprehension as they imagine themselves in that situation, because to me the terror of it all will be self-evident.
A man is driving through the hills. The peaks are tall, the descents steep, and he can’t stop.
THE END.
Again, I feel similarly about water, which is a little weird because I actually love going to the beach and swimming, as long as I’m close to shore. The idea of being stuck out in the depths with no land in sight is another matter. A sailor, I was not born to be.
One of the scariest sentences I’ve ever read comes from the book Isaac’s Storm, about the Galveston Hurricane of 1900. Describing a moment where the storm surge abruptly raises the water level on the already flooded island by four feet in a matter of seconds, Erik Larson writes, “This was not a wave, but the sea itself.” He goes on to write that this was a moment of “profound terror,” and reminds the reader that this would be taller than most children, who would need their parents to lift them and take them to the second story of their homes, if they were fortunate to have a second story. This elaboration and detail are sensible to add, but I worry that I would neglect them.
This was not a wave, but the sea itself.
What else do you need?
Well, Larson’s book isn’t a horror story (or, at least, it’s not in the horror fiction genre), so this isn’t an apples-to-apples comparison, but you still get what I’m saying, don’t you?
When I write about other things that people might be afraid of—be they as practical as the dark or as fantastical as ghosts—I know I have to give the reader more than, “it was dark,” or “she saw a spirit.” I have to expand on these things, make the reader understand why the situation would be frightening for the character, write like I presume this isn’t something the reader would be automatically afraid of. It’s harder to get into that creative headspace when writing about something that automatically gives me the chills at minimum.
I’ve seen pictures of tall bridges that made my stomach hurt. Last year, when I was invited to the Midsummer Scream, I caught sight of the International Gateway Bridge and immediately pulled over in my rental to make sure I wasn’t going to cross it, and to also make sure I committed to memory the names of streets that would lead me to it. Seeing how high some of the overpasses were in just the sliver of Pennsylvania that I drove through made me dizzy. I realized as I tried to describe my disdain for heights to other people that it was a bit hopeless for me. I like to think I’m at least decent at communicating what makes something potentially unsettling, and diving into what a character is feeling, or what the atmosphere is like when the horror makes its presence felt.
When it comes to heights, though?
And open water?
And, what the hell, while I’m sharing, I’m not too crazy about needles either.
Thinking of all of my attempts at writing a novel, all of my short stories published or unpublished, I recall very, very few moments where I bothered with writing my greatest fears at all. Again, not necessarily because I’m that afraid of them. For some reason, I tend to gravitate to the things that frighten me, albeit in safe ways. After getting home from Stokercon, I couldn’t stop watching videos of people driving through the most dangerous mountain roads in America. I’m fascinated by shipwrecks and read up on them regularly, bracing myself to be shocked still for a second by even an artist’s rendering of a ship foundering in the sea when I turn the page.
As for the needles… you know, somehow I’ve seen Audition more than once (although I might have covered my eyes or averted my gaze on occasion), which is massive progress considering I used to cry at the mere sight of the syringe when I was a kid, and as an adult, the first time I decided to donate plasma for extra cash, my fear was apparent enough for the technician to ask if I was okay, and if I’d had a change of heart about going forward with this.
Writing about these fears as though I’m unafraid of them, so that I can write about them effectively, it’s the challenge I’ve dodged for years.
But I’ve got a story idea for an anthology I was invited to. I think it’s a good one. I’m especially fond of the last three words.
It involves a man on the road, driving uphill. The peak is tall, the descent is steep. He can’t stop. I think I’m ready to give more to it than that. To really flesh it out. Hopefully it works. I have a backup story in the works as well, just in case the editor of the anthology isn’t as sold on this one. But I’m optimistic, and excited to see what comes of me finally accepting this challenge.
A Few Favorites
In a musical mood this week, so here are a couple of picks.
“PROM / KING”
This is one of my, “Even if you don’t normally listen to hip-hop, I think you’ll like this,” recruitment songs. It’s fantastic. Two stories, but really one, about a young man discovering a bond with his somewhat more reckless relative who is, unfortunately, going to have his time cut short by violence. This will probably sound odd to some, but it genuinely gives me slight A River Runs Through It vibes.
“Things Don’t Exist” by Goapele
The first story I ever wrote that actually gave me confidence in my ability to create a compelling, frightening story was originally titled Indigo (later, Ghost Doors, when I thought that original title was too esoteric), and was inspired by the mood of this song. And the lyric, of course, “When that Indigo creeps on me, I can’t deny that I’m blue, and not like you.” Somehow, I felt inspired to write a portmanteau horror story based on those words, and somedays I even think that the old script might be salvageable. Regardless of whether it is or isn’t, this song remains a favorite.
Confirmed Sightings: A Triple Cryptid Feature by Bridget D. Brave, P.L. McMillan, and Ryan Marie Ketterer
Three novellas by three authors with three-part monikers comprise this entertaining book of unfriendly cryptids. It’s funny in the right places, but not at the expense of some satisfying and even disturbing horror, and the change of settings and perspectives (from small towns to outer space) not only makes each story feel fresh within the book itself, but also within the sub-genre of monster / cryptid horror itself. How many cryptid books have you read that open with a running online diary of a budding relationship between a quirky young woman, and the demi-god bird-monster she’s fallen so hard for that she can’t see how it could pose problems in her own life, much less the lives of others?
“Uh… several.”
Liar.
This will be your first. Pick it up.
I think horror people are fearful by nature. We write horror because we're acutely aware of how wrong shit can go in a given situation. I definitely relate to the fear of heights. Stephen King’s "The Ledge" nearly gave me vertigo just reading it!