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Why Halloween is the Best Holiday

10/26/2014

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(reposted from my entry in the HWA's Halloween Haunts)

For horror writers, Halloween is the most anticipated holiday of the year. It’s not hard to imagine why: many dress up like their favorite monsters or villains, and it’s easier to find black lipstick in a department store. The holiday is observed in the middle of autumn, when there is less daylight, the night is chillier, and the landscape has shriveled up in preparation for winter. There is a vague sense of impending excitement, as the year draws to a close. Perfect setting for a gothic novel—or a celebration of who we really are.
What places does Halloween have in the 21st century? One would think that ghosts and ghoulies would be passé in a world steeped in the Information Age. It, like all other major holidays here in the Unites States, has been commercialized to the point of mass- saturation. Anathema to the horror genre and its writers, Halloween is mainstream. Children trick or treat, ‘haunted’ houses can be found in every city or small town, and every cheesy slasher flick makes the rounds on television. Despite all this, Halloween still holds a special place in our culture, and particularly the horror sub-culture. It, like the stock monsters associated with it, will not die.

Halloween still belongs to us. And by us, I mean everyone—not just horror writers and fans. Unlike other major holidays, Halloween has not been stolen by religion, like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. It’s not beholden to shallow patriotic ideals, such as the Fourth of July or Veteran’s Day. I say shallow, because you’ll never see a politician praising anything about Halloween, or using it to strengthen their public image, at the expense of the holiday’s original intent. It’s not based on propaganda, like Columbus Day, which whitewashes the death and ruin of so many natives in the Pre-Columbian Americas. No, Halloween, has survived all that. Why?

We’re allowed to have fun on Halloween. In a society that smiles on conformity, this is the one day where no one at the shopping mall will stare at you for wearing fangs and red contact lenses. Fear is sought after for it adrenaline rush, the thrill of being scared. Spooky décor, animated lawn greeters, chilling music—many of us bring all that out in October. For the children knocking at the door, and the child still inside of us. Don a mask and become someone else. Oh, we may laugh afterward, but a glimpse of who we are shines through in these guises. The choice of costume, especially for adults, isn’t arbitrary. We feed our fantasies while the trick-or-treaters feed their sweet tooth. It’s okay to seek demons in the shadows, talk to ghosts in the attic, and stroll through the forest at midnight wearing a plastic mask. Halloween is a momentary rejection of the modern world, when we can believe in vampires, spirits, and other superstitions entertained by medieval peasants. Those peasants, like children, were ignorant of what lies in the darkness. For one night, we can return to this primal state, dancing with the dead even as our hearts throb with the revelry of life.

For us horror writers, Halloween is a reflection of what we already know. The greatest abominations aren’t found under the bed, in a disturbed graveyard, or those spelled out on a Ouija board. They are human beings. The monsters on Halloween are all fake, and thus engenders a comfort zone in us. Dracula becomes a romantic, Frankenstein’s creation becomes a bumbling teddy bear, and zombies are too slow and dumb to really catch us. At the end of the holiday, their masks can be removed. Their make-up can be washed off. The real monster lies underneath the costume, and walks in the light of day. It stares back at you in the mirror on the morning afterward.

The best horror stories tell us something about ourselves: what we fear, how we deal with it, and what fear does to those who surrender to it. Literary critics write off the horror genre as pulp garbage, religious leaders label it as satanic, and conformists consider it abnormal. Just like Halloween. But society needs us. People seek truth in art, and one of the most frightening truths is that human beings are capable of the greatest imaginable evils. Beneath our façade of rationality is the beast, and it is never satisfied—nor far from awakening. Horror fiction illustrates this. It shows us who we can be, if we face those fears. It also reveals who we might become, should we indulge them.

Just like Halloween.

Halloween and horror fiction both celebrates and refutes the beast within us. Above religion and state, both are all-inclusive to anyone unafraid to look in the mirror. They are a subconscious confession that we know what we are—and that we know how to control ourselves. For one fleeting night, we can wear masks depicting monsters. Monsters of our own imagination. Their limits are our limits. We make jest of the demons of old, impersonating them so that the demons inside of us will sleep one more year.

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Ray Bradbury was Wrong

10/20/2014

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Since this article’s title may have some Bradbury fans in an uproar, I will start by saying that I love his work. Fahrenheit 451, The Illustrated Man, The Martian Chronicles, Something Wicked This Way Comes—all are seminal works within the speculative fiction genre. Yet, in his later years, Bradbury offered scathing criticism of computers and the internet. That is odd coming from a writer who wrote about spaceships and astronauts. The computer is an integral device within most science fiction stories, and by extension, everything associated with it—that means the internet. With the ubiquity of social media, via computers, phones, tablets, televisions, even rings and wristwatches now, some feel this intrudes upon a writer’s art. In other words, many are spending more time writing posts than they are prose. Ray Bradbury’s worst nightmare, right? You could say I’m a hypocrite, since I’m writing this blog entry rather than prose. This comes only after I just dashed out 6,200 words on a novella that is nearing completion. So I make sure I get the real work done first. I am an example of a writer who uses all of the tools at my disposal—without allowing the tools to use me.

To be fair, Bradbury grew up in a different world than we live in now. He rented a typewriter at UCLA to compose Fahrenheit 451, at the rate of a dime every thirty minutes. He loved libraries, and the feel, scent, and weight of hardcopy books. Libraries were all physical, unlike today, where much knowledge can be accessed online. You’d think a writer, especially one who wrote science fiction, would appreciate such informational access. Bradbury comes across as a curmudgeon instead, though he did have his own website in the last few years of his life. Still, he remained critical of this amazing digital tool, one that can be accessed literally anywhere you can receive a satellite signal. Many writers also consider it a bane, complaining about trying to get work done while posting on Facebook.

As a writer, I’ve found the internet indispensable. Submitting stories via email and website forms is far more economic and faster than snail mail. All of my acceptances have been due to this easy connectivity. I’m just as proud of my first fiction sale as I’m sure Bradbury was of his. I wouldn’t have gotten novels accepted were it not for the internet. It’s not the medium that counts. Sure, I love to walk into a book store, inhale the scent of unread volumes, feel the pages between my fingers, enjoy the weight of a hardcover in my hand. But I don’t read and write to experience those sensations. Those things are ephemeral, really. What matters is your story, your work. With the internet, that work can reach more people than ever before.

Bradbury feared that more screens and more internet meant less reading. For some, this is true, but these people probably didn’t read much to begin with. Then there’s writers who seem more focused on posting self-promoting snippets on Twitter than actually composing a new piece. Or the ones who crow about writing a mere 500 words that day, as if that were an accomplishment, then make twenty posts on Facebook they’ll forget about in a week. I understand some people may only have time to wrench out 500 words from their brain that day. Part of being a successful writer is knowing how to manage one’s time. To make the most of the all-too short period when your mind in wrapped in your fiction. Like anything else, you’ll do it if you really want to.

Logging out of Facebook or other sites and services is a no-brainer when you’re writing, but one needn’t become a short-term Luddite and turn off every device in the house. For me, the internet and my devices augment my writing experience. Typically, when I write, I have research books opened on the counter, maps spread out, Wikipedia up on the web browser, a Dictionary.com app open on my phone, and atmospheric music playing from the computer. Oftentimes I’ll still grab my hardcopy of the Oxford Thesaurus. And if I’m writing anything about the Late Bronze Age, you bet your ass my books by Nancy K. Sandars and Manuel Robbins are there on my desk. All of this while I type away at the manuscript. Desperate to fill that blank page: the true enemy of the writer, not technology.

This may not work for everyone. The addiction to Facebook can be great, and receiving constant notifications or texts are annoying when you’re in the middle of writing one hell of a sex scene. It’s best to use what you need, and tune out the rest. Do I require all of these tools to write? Of course not. Sometimes, late at night, I write in silence, without any device at my disposal. Other times, I compose a few hundred words on my phone or tablet while away from my comfortable writing lair. I can then upload that to a cloud drive, email it, or share it with fellow writers via social media. Kinda hard to do that with a traditional notepad and pen. Plus, ape scrawls are more legible than my handwriting. But each to their own.

So, yeah, Ray Bradbury was wrong—but only regarding those of us who accept what the 21st century has to offer. Many authors still use a typewriter, write drafts in notebooks, refuse to buy ebooks. That’s their prerogative. You’ll never hear me criticize them. Ray Bradbury was wrong to criticize people like me, who are using these tools to benefit my creations, not clog my mind with bullshit. People were cramming their heads with nonsense before the internet, even before television, so that’s won’t cease anytime soon. That’s what is great about being an author right now. There’s more choices, more markets, more tools. More readers, believe it or not. Shun them at your own risk.

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