Never Apologize...

...For your art.

People that know me or that have had the "Scott A. Johnson Experience" at Seton Hill know that there are few things that royally piss me off.  Among the worst of them is a curious habit most often seen in beginning/novice/would-be writers:  Apologizing for your work.  If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times (to use hyperbole), never, never, NEVER apologize for your work.  No matter where I go, be it conventions or workshops, there seems to be this great tendency among students to preface everything with "Well, this isn't very good" or "I wrote this fifteen minutes before I got up here" or something of the like.  What that translates to, for your audience, is "I'm sorry, this sucks, and I'm about to waste your time."

Wow, that sounded harsh, didn't it?  But it's the truth.  By prefacing what you're about to read or workshop in such a manner, you're really telling the audience or your classmates that you have no confidence in your own work, and that they really shouldn't waste their time reading it.  Why?  Let's say, for the sake of argument, that you're at a convention.  You've been asked to read your work.  Let me repeat that...You've been asked to read your work.  That means someone liked it enough to invite you to share it.  Chances are, as I've said in other blog entries, even if it does suck, no one is going to stand up and throw things at you.  The fact is, the people in the audience are there because they want to be there, and more than likely, they're already fans.  Why would you tell fans not to bother with your work?

Let's say, again hypothetically speaking, you're in a classroom/workshop setting, and it's your turn to have your story workshopped.  Why on Earth would you tell your critique partners that they've wasted their time reading something that you've put your heart and soul into?

The truth is, no one is perfect.  Not one person who ever put words to page (myself included) is incapable of making mistakes.  Writing is a risk.  In fact, any time you pull something out of that creative portion of your brain, you're taking a risk.  How many times have you heard (or heard of) someone say they wished they could write a book?  Or that they have a great idea for a book, but they need someone else to write it? You, as a writer, have accomplished something that many people feel is personally impossible.  You created those characters, you put them through hell, and you deserve the credit for it.  Be proud of what you've worked on.  Be proud that you are a writer.  Never apologize for your work, because if someone else could've written it, they would've.

Someone once asked me, after I admonished them and told them to never apologize, what if the work genuinely sucks?  What then?

My answer:  Suck out loud.  Be proud of it anyway.

In Defense of Lovecraft...

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age. - HP Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu

There are only a handful of names that come up whenever a horror writer lists their influences.  Among the oldest names are Edgar Allan Poe (of course) and Howard Phillips Lovecraft.  For the former, there can be no doubt of the hair-raising qualities of his work.  Yet for the latter, despite rabid praise from contemporary authors like King, Barker, Matheson and Johnson (yes, me), I hear lots of folks say they just don't "get" it.  People don't like his writing style, don't like his flowery language, don't like (fill in the blank).  So why, then, do people like the afore mentioned group of horror Gods (and one shameless self-promoter) love the man so much?  I'll attempt to explain.

Lovecraft, to begin with, never referred to his work as "horror," but rather "weird fiction."  Horror wasn't really much of a genre to him, but, along with Clark Ashton Smith and Robert E. Howard, formed some of the longest-lasting images of horror, science fiction, and fantasy (respectively) of anyone.  Of Lovecraft in particular, his themes have transcended his own age and moved not only through ours, but, I believe, beyond ours.  His theme of forbidden knowledge, particularly, is one that has been the subject of countless movies, books and television series.  All of his stories, in fact, resonate in some way the same overwhelming fear:  The world you think is real isn't real at all.

Far beyond that, there are two things Lovecraft did better than any other.  First, he was a master at bringing the settings, or even inanimate objects, to vivid life, creating an almost sentient character from every brick in each building.  Look at The Shadow over Insmouth or even Pickman's Model to see what I'm talking about.  The whole town functions as a living, breathing, slime-covered and malignant character in the former, while the single block in which Pickman lives becomes another.  And for pure menace, one need only mention the dreaded Necronomicon for people, even those who've never read Lovecraft's work, to shudder.  His description of the damned book so inspired people that many refused to believe it wasn't real, and others actually have developed cults dedicated to it.  His second area of mastery, one that I subscribe to, was the notion that the things we can't see are, most often, more frightening than the things we can.  While to some, his habit of leaving out details is annoying, to me it allows the reader to create the monster in his or her own head, which personalizes the story and makes it all the more frightening.

Now, sure, Lovecraft had his shortcomings.  His writing, much like most of that from the time period, is long-winded and difficult.  A person has to really want to read his work to develop a taste for it (or they have to be assigned it by a sadistic professor in a Masters level program...hehehe...).  He was an unashamed racist (actually, an ethnicist...He didn't like European white folks either), was paranoid, and pretty-much scoffed at the idea of a loving, protective deity.  He died a pauper living with his aunts and never really achieved what anyone considers any level of success.

But his influence lives on through his stories.  Sure, the man may have had issues, but it's not the man we're looking at here.  It's the work.  His words, his themes, his technique.  Say what you will, but look around at any writer of the modern age and you'll see Lovecraft's influence, if only in a small way.

Creating Tension

One of the great hallmarks of horror is the palpable build of tension.  King did it masterfully in The Shining, with its slow-burn ratchet of terror.  Matheson, when he wrote Hell House, created one of the single greatest nail-biters in literature.  We, as writers, all aspire to create that sense of dread, that feeling that has our readers squirming in their seats, that moment when our readers, lost in our story, will leap out of their skin when a cat (or child or mouse) runs through the room.  With movies, television, even radio plays, the listener has cues to build tension.  Scary music, visual clues, or just a subtle drop in the actor's voice or a quarter-inch widening of the eyes can do it.  But we as writers have no such tools on which to lean.  We have our words and the page, and building  any kind of emotional connection therein is difficult, to say the least.

Horror without tension isn't horror...It's merely a collection of horrific things.  The emotional journey for the reader, without it, isn't there.  So how can we create tension in our stories?

My own definition of tension as it relates to horror, and writing in general, is taking your characters to the edge and refusing to push them over.  It's a subtle build of events, each one another notch on the ratchet, that brings him closer to the inevitable end.  But more than just careening toward that end, it's in how he gets there that's important.  It isn't enough to get your character from point A to point Z.  It's the roadblocks (points B-Y) you set up in front of him that make the story.  Each one brings him closer to the edge.

Take, for example, the classic ghost story.  If the first thing the characters see is the horrible phantom in all its grisly glory, the story is basically over.  We know what's coming and we're able to deal with it.  But if it starts small, say with a single moving door, and builds, we see the terror mount.  We see that ratchet tighten.  We begin to feel that character's growing dread.

We can create tension, as author Gary Braunbeck says, through hesitation.  A knock late at night.  The character hesitates before opening the door.  "Who could that be?" he thinks.  Another knock.  "It's so late," he thinks.  Another knock.  "I'm in a cabin with all my friends, and no one knows I'm here..."  Another knock.  The cliff drop is when he actually opens the door.  The tension comes from his reluctance to open it.

You can also build tension mechanically in your stories, by using shorter phrases, single syllable words, things that bring the rhythm of your writing to a staccato fever like a pounding heart.  You can build it with repitition, trigger phrases, or even with absence of description.  Describe a puppy and leave out the word "puppy" and the fact that it's only eleven inches tall at the shoulder and what do you have?  A fur-covered beast with needle-sharp teeth and claws.  The moment you name it, your brain quantifies it, and can therefore deal with it.  But if you leave it unnamed, leave the reader with the shadow under the door instead of what's making the shadow, the tension, the uncertainty, becomes significant.

Apply the above to any genre.  In romance or erotica, keep the lovers apart though the reader knows they want to be together.  In comedy, keep the punchline for as long as you can.  Build the tension and string the reader along.  It makes the payoff, punchline, or killshot much more engaging.

Write on!