 Maybe it’s because I’m bisexual myself, but to me, creating and writing LGBT+ characters (personally I prefer “queer”) is as natural as breathing. Even if sexuality is never addressed, I will have a fair idea of what any of my characters are into, and what not. Just like I know the colour of their hair, whether or not it is ever mentioned. Sadly, too many good storytellers refuse to include queer characters in their work. On occasion, one is shoe-horned in for ridicule, victimisation, or unabashed tokenism, but never as a real person. The storytellers’ excuses for perpetuating this trend are as lazy as they are outdated, and are as tenacious as they are unfounded. Here are five poor excuses that I hear too often: “I can’t include queer characters in my story, because… 1.…I don’t want my MC to be a flamboyant, over-dramatic man/ugly woman in overalls!”News flash: no one else wants you to perpetuate this kind of damaging stereotypes, either. Nor is there a reason why you should. Like cartoon portraits, stereotypes are exaggerated images. The problem is that any cartoonesque attributes are easier to remember than nuances. Without regular reality checks to confirm a stereotype for the cartoon it is, we lose sight of that reality. And in reality, queer people are indistinguishable from the rest of the population. You can’t tell someone’s sexuality from their looks, unless they choose to draw attention to this side of themself. Some do, many don’t. Yet it is because they are indistinguishable that coming out can be such a shock to the people nearest to them: friends and family didn’t expect it, because nothing gave it away. The same is true for queer characters. A character doesn’t have to act, speak, or look a certain way to be queer. How many characters are queer in the minds of their creator without the audience ever finding out? J.K. Rowling told her readers that Dumbledore was gay, but nothing in the original Harry Potter books implied this. And why should it, when Dumbledore’s sexuality had nothing to do with the plot? Which brings me to the next excuse. 2.… it will ruin the plot!” |
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"Time has proven that cis writers aren’t always enlightened enough to deliver fully realized trans characters. And sure, it’s difficult when you lack firsthand experience. But whether it’s laziness, apathy, or whatever the writer’s lame excuse is—I’m not buying it."
Part of our LGBTQ+ focus month remit is to highlight inclusivity within the genre, we believe, and it may be wrong, hell this is a learning process for us, that the best way to increase to number of eyes on fiction from LGBTQ+ writers is to show that LGBTQ+ fiction shouldn't be marginalised, and that there should be nothing to be afraid of for to the straight white male reader when faced a character or a novel that deals with LGBTQ+ issues.
Sadly as is the case in most genres, most exposure to these characters and themes comes from books written by straight white people, so with that in mind we reached out to a couple of authors who have used LGBTQ+ characters in their novels and challenged them to show us either why they do it, or how they go about creating a character that isn't just a paper thin cliched cipher. Today we welcome Chad Stroup to explain how he went about creating, and doing justice to Trixie the trans woman protagonist in his novel Secrets of the Weird
Sadly as is the case in most genres, most exposure to these characters and themes comes from books written by straight white people, so with that in mind we reached out to a couple of authors who have used LGBTQ+ characters in their novels and challenged them to show us either why they do it, or how they go about creating a character that isn't just a paper thin cliched cipher. Today we welcome Chad Stroup to explain how he went about creating, and doing justice to Trixie the trans woman protagonist in his novel Secrets of the Weird
I’ve never been one to go limp in the face of a creative challenge.
Despite being what most would consider a cisstraightdude™ writer, I write queer characters from time to time, both as leads and supporting characters. Mostly because writing about individuals who are said to be “like me” gets a tad boring after a while (more on this shortly). However, I knew it was a big move from the get-go to choose a trans woman protagonist for my first novel, Secrets of the Weird, a risky endeavor some readers might not be open to. But I felt compelled to tell Trixie’s tale, and I’m not the type to attempt something in my fiction without going whole hog. Trixie had to matter, or why bother?
The dread of another cliché character who belongs to a marginalized group is a real thing, and I totally understand that apprehension. Time has proven that cis writers aren’t always enlightened enough to deliver fully realized trans characters. And sure, it’s difficult when you lack firsthand experience. But whether it’s laziness, apathy, or whatever the writer’s lame excuse is—I’m not buying it. I believe it’s possible to tackle any character of any background with a certain level of authenticity and still sell it. You just have to care enough to make it work to the best of your abilities.
With a few exceptions, I’m not terribly interested in characters who are “like me.” I use quotation marks here because so many straight cisgender male characters I tend to read about fall into categories that are the exact opposite of my life experience. They might be fathers, police officers, or philanderers. Or perhaps they’re Holden Caulfields, Patrick Batemans, or John Rambos, none of which I can remotely relate to. Writing a character like any of those I’ve mentioned above would be a huge challenge for me because I often share nothing with these types of individuals save some similarly shaped genitalia. Now, I realize this isn’t necessarily the same thing as writing a queer character and doing it justice, but I merely wanted to illustrate a point that—for me—writing almost any character involves stepping into the shoes of someone who has had vastly different life experiences from myself. What I’ve learned to do is find the common ground in a character and roll with it.
My first rule was being comfortable with the realization that some trans women readers might believe I got Trixie all wrong because many of her life experiences don’t match up with their own (which, in this case, is a damned good thing for the most part—just because I show respect when creating a character doesn’t mean I’m not going to force her to trudge through hell and back). And that’s fine. However, she also has plenty of experiences that are likely similar to what other trans women have had (and for those women, I offer my deepest condolences). Every individual is different. So I had to commit to the authenticity of Trixie and Trixie only, not worrying about fitting in everything that might be considered correct and excluding everything that might be considered controversial. My second rule was to make Trixie an engaging and likable character while still allowing her to be hopelessly flawed. I wanted straight men to fall in love with her, and the average reader to root for her despite the criminal acts and dishonesty she’s had participate in to survive. It is hopefully her imperfections that make her relatable to any reader from any background.
When I first began the journey of creating Trixie, I didn’t have any friends who were transgender. Certainly not by design, but it was that way nevertheless. And at the time, I didn’t feel comfortable reaching out to people I didn’t know to ask personal questions. However, research was still crucial for this character, so I had to get creative in order to lock Trixie down, because it was essential that she not be a cardboard cut-out. She needed to be a living, breathing human being capable of stepping off the page.
How did I manage that, you ask?
Watching hours upon hours of YouTube videos.
In the early stages of developing Secrets of the Weird, I listened to dozens of young trans women talk about various aspects of their lives. Some of their experiences were positive, while many had lived lives at the far end of the opposite spectrum. And as much as I’m pleased to see there are trans women in this day and age with people in their lives who love and support them, that wasn’t what I was looking for. Not for this character. I definitely wanted her to be someone who had an absorbing personality and was beginning to find happiness in her life, but also someone who had gone through dire circumstances to get where she was. Some of the young women I listened to were clearly uncomfortable with making their lives public yet still felt compelled to tell their stories. These were the individuals I felt immediately connected to. Some used humor as a coping mechanism, others exposed all of their awful experiences for the world to see. It was from these women I cherry-picked different details to Frankenstein together my own creation. A personality quirk, a physical attribute, the cadence in a voice, tales of uncomfortable encounters with strangers as well as friends, makeup tips, awkward pauses—not all of these things necessarily made it to the page, but they needed to be known to make Trixie work. And I’m personally quite proud of the final result.
I know I could never make Trixie as authentic as someone with firsthand experience. But I’m confident I did the absolute best I could, considering the circumstances, and I can’t wait to take Trixie even further on her journey in future stories. I hope you’ll take a chance and join us.
Despite being what most would consider a cisstraightdude™ writer, I write queer characters from time to time, both as leads and supporting characters. Mostly because writing about individuals who are said to be “like me” gets a tad boring after a while (more on this shortly). However, I knew it was a big move from the get-go to choose a trans woman protagonist for my first novel, Secrets of the Weird, a risky endeavor some readers might not be open to. But I felt compelled to tell Trixie’s tale, and I’m not the type to attempt something in my fiction without going whole hog. Trixie had to matter, or why bother?
The dread of another cliché character who belongs to a marginalized group is a real thing, and I totally understand that apprehension. Time has proven that cis writers aren’t always enlightened enough to deliver fully realized trans characters. And sure, it’s difficult when you lack firsthand experience. But whether it’s laziness, apathy, or whatever the writer’s lame excuse is—I’m not buying it. I believe it’s possible to tackle any character of any background with a certain level of authenticity and still sell it. You just have to care enough to make it work to the best of your abilities.
With a few exceptions, I’m not terribly interested in characters who are “like me.” I use quotation marks here because so many straight cisgender male characters I tend to read about fall into categories that are the exact opposite of my life experience. They might be fathers, police officers, or philanderers. Or perhaps they’re Holden Caulfields, Patrick Batemans, or John Rambos, none of which I can remotely relate to. Writing a character like any of those I’ve mentioned above would be a huge challenge for me because I often share nothing with these types of individuals save some similarly shaped genitalia. Now, I realize this isn’t necessarily the same thing as writing a queer character and doing it justice, but I merely wanted to illustrate a point that—for me—writing almost any character involves stepping into the shoes of someone who has had vastly different life experiences from myself. What I’ve learned to do is find the common ground in a character and roll with it.
My first rule was being comfortable with the realization that some trans women readers might believe I got Trixie all wrong because many of her life experiences don’t match up with their own (which, in this case, is a damned good thing for the most part—just because I show respect when creating a character doesn’t mean I’m not going to force her to trudge through hell and back). And that’s fine. However, she also has plenty of experiences that are likely similar to what other trans women have had (and for those women, I offer my deepest condolences). Every individual is different. So I had to commit to the authenticity of Trixie and Trixie only, not worrying about fitting in everything that might be considered correct and excluding everything that might be considered controversial. My second rule was to make Trixie an engaging and likable character while still allowing her to be hopelessly flawed. I wanted straight men to fall in love with her, and the average reader to root for her despite the criminal acts and dishonesty she’s had participate in to survive. It is hopefully her imperfections that make her relatable to any reader from any background.
When I first began the journey of creating Trixie, I didn’t have any friends who were transgender. Certainly not by design, but it was that way nevertheless. And at the time, I didn’t feel comfortable reaching out to people I didn’t know to ask personal questions. However, research was still crucial for this character, so I had to get creative in order to lock Trixie down, because it was essential that she not be a cardboard cut-out. She needed to be a living, breathing human being capable of stepping off the page.
How did I manage that, you ask?
Watching hours upon hours of YouTube videos.
In the early stages of developing Secrets of the Weird, I listened to dozens of young trans women talk about various aspects of their lives. Some of their experiences were positive, while many had lived lives at the far end of the opposite spectrum. And as much as I’m pleased to see there are trans women in this day and age with people in their lives who love and support them, that wasn’t what I was looking for. Not for this character. I definitely wanted her to be someone who had an absorbing personality and was beginning to find happiness in her life, but also someone who had gone through dire circumstances to get where she was. Some of the young women I listened to were clearly uncomfortable with making their lives public yet still felt compelled to tell their stories. These were the individuals I felt immediately connected to. Some used humor as a coping mechanism, others exposed all of their awful experiences for the world to see. It was from these women I cherry-picked different details to Frankenstein together my own creation. A personality quirk, a physical attribute, the cadence in a voice, tales of uncomfortable encounters with strangers as well as friends, makeup tips, awkward pauses—not all of these things necessarily made it to the page, but they needed to be known to make Trixie work. And I’m personally quite proud of the final result.
I know I could never make Trixie as authentic as someone with firsthand experience. But I’m confident I did the absolute best I could, considering the circumstances, and I can’t wait to take Trixie even further on her journey in future stories. I hope you’ll take a chance and join us.
ABOUT CHAD STROUP
Chad Stroup received his MFA in Fiction from San Diego State University. Secrets of the Weird, Stroup’s debut novel, is available from Grey Matter Press and his second novel, Sexy Leper, is forthcoming from Bizarro Pulp Press. His short stories have been featured in anthologies such as Chiral Mad 4, Lost Films, Splatterlands, and California Screamin’, and his dark poetry has appeared in all five volumes of the HWA Poetry Showcase. Visit his blog Subvertbia at http://subvertbia.blogspot.com/, follow him on Instagram (@chadxstroup), and drop by his Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/ChadStroupWriter.
SECRETS OF THE WEIRD BY CHAD STROUP
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LGBTQ+ horror month: Paralysed by Fear: How sleep paralysis has shaped my relationship with horror
16/1/2019
People often ask me why I am fascinated by horror. It's a complicated question to answer, but it relates to an early memory of mine that could easily have been featured in any of the books or movies that I've grown to love. I was about five, and in bed. I had woken up quite suddenly and was hanging on to my duvet for dear life while something at the foot of the bed tried to drag it off me. I don't know how long the struggle lasted, but it ended when I finally found the voice to scream and my parents rushed into the room to see what was going on. Needless to say, they did not find anything hiding in the gap between the foot of my bed and my bedroom wall, and yet, the same thing happened a few nights later, and perhaps a month after that it was not the duvet the invisible intruder was trying to drag away- it was me! Night time, and especially bed time, became so traumatic for me that I would flatly refuse to go upstairs unless one of my parents (or my long-suffering older brother) was upstairs too, because I was convinced that if I was alone I would come to harm and nobody would be on hand to help me. I also struggled to get any real sleep, waking up frequently throughout the night and experiencing all kinds of odd phenomena. Sometimes it would be a shadowy shape leaning out of the darkness to peer at me, which seemed to vanish as soon as I opened my eyes fully and would only reappear when my eyelids grew heavy again; other times, it was the distinct feeling of something heavy pressing down on the covers next to my ankles, as if something huge and unseen was perched on the side of the bed. I heard strange scratching sounds in the walls, at sometimes I would feel something jabbing at me from below, making my mattress bounce and shake. I did not have a single night of good sleep, and as a result, I was a pretty miserable and unpleasant kid.
But I adapted. I would take short naps on car rides to and from school, and I learned which of my night-time visitors were 'safe' and which were not. The dark shape looming over me? That one I could ignore, because it never got too close. The shaking mattress? That would require parental intervention or it would get worse, and I would scream for help as soon as I found my voice. It affected other parts my life, too: most children have imaginary friends, and I was no exception, but mine were the things I saw at night. That served to isolate me from my peers at school. Other kids imagined playmates from their favourite TV shows, or fantastical creatures from fairy tales; my most prominent imaginary friend was a giant, shape-changing black mass with glowing red eyes, able to take on any form (including what I can only describe as a nightmarish My Little Pony, because let's face: every five year old wants a pony at some point!) I grew irritable and depressed, and if I could avoid going to sleep, then I would.
This all sounds pretty fantastical, I know, but my parents took it very seriously. Both myself and my brother are adopted, and there was concern that my 'nightmares' (a term that sent me into a rage, incidentally, because I was sure I was not sleeping when they happened) were the result of that very deep emotional trauma. I was sent to child therapists, who I tortured at length with drawings of my disturbing imaginary friends. My school teachers were kept on high alert, too, trying to decipher what it was that distressing me. I was taken to doctors, who said I would either grow out of it or was acting up for attention. I was taken to therapists, who all agreed I was a very imaginative child but that there was no underlying reason for my night terrors. One tentatively suggested I should be taken to see a priest; I never saw that therapist again, and, knowing my mother (and despite her Christian beliefs), I am sure that the hospital received a very strongly worded letter about it. But the incidents continued, and my family adjusted. My parents would sit upstairs for a while when I went to bed and only come down again once I was asleep, and even our dog did his part, coming in to check on me at night or keeping me company if I was too afraid to drift off. On nights like that I would sit up and read, or watch videos on my portable TV/VCR combo. I can't pin-point exactly when I turned to horror, but I was definitely a lot younger than I aught to have been. The things I saw in movies like The Exorcist seemed oddly comforting, as if seeing other people being thrown off their beds by unseen hands validated the things I had experienced myself. I began seeking horror out, looking for things that matched up to what I was going through. I was looking for answers, and it seemed that only the horror genre was able to give me any.
I think it is worth saying at this point that I do not actually believe in the supernatural, but I did, for a time. I consumed any media I could find about ghosts, demons, and even alien abductions- anything I could find that shared any of the features of what I had been going through. I went from being the angry miserable kid to the weird kid, the one you don't go near much, or only talked to if you wanted to hear about something strange. I slipped into the goth subculture, finding comfort in the idea that the dark and the macabre could be beautiful as well as terrifying. I started scouring second hand book shops for anything I could find that I knew I wasn't meant to read, and the stack of books my teachers had to confiscate from me (I used to read in class, rather than paying attention) began to look like a veritable who's who of classic horror, including such gems as Stephen King's IT and James Herbert's Shrine alongside slightly more age-appropriate offerings, like the Point Horror series. At one point, I actually had three copies of Jaws on the go, because one of my teachers was so determined to take it off me that I kept back-ups hidden in my locker. I am a very slow reader, but it's amazing how defying authority can motivate one to overcome difficulties and finish a book in record time. But no matter what I read, and what I tried, the horror I saw on the page and on the screen did not come close to the terror that haunted me at night. And so I began to love horror for another reason: in books and movies, the monsters rarely win. The invisible presence is exorcised, the demon thrown back into hell, and- most importantly- the un-believed victim is exonerated.
My own exoneration came much later. I was around fourteen and attending boarding school when one of the house mistresses finally had enough of my disruptive night time behaviour, and actually sat me down to ask me what was going on. I was already in a separate room by myself since my night time habits and general demeanour (combined with the fact that I was starting to realise that I was not actually a girl) made me an unpopular dorm-mate, but I was still causing trouble. My room was above the house mistress's room, and I think the sound of me pacing around or yelling at the shadows (which was how I made them go away when I woke up) grew old fast for her. So, one night at about 3am she came up to ask me what was going on. She brought me tea, and made me tell her everything. She had seen the pictures of my old imaginary friends thanks to school art projects, and had read some of the disturbing things I had written for my English assignments, but she was the first person to put the pieces together and finally give a name to the demon that he been haunting me.
“Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?”
Perhaps I had, in passing. Sleep paralysis is a common theme in many horror stories (including a few that I had read), being an easy mechanism to allow non-believers to discredit or overlook the plight of the victimised characters. I don't think I had ever realised that it was a real condition until then, writing it off as another fiction in my ever-growing pile of books and movies. The idea that the human body could mess up something as basic as waking up seemed ludicrous to me when I read it in works of fiction, but hearing about it from my sensible, no-nonsense house mistress was very different. She explained how the hallucinations were the mind's way of trying to interpret what was going on while the strange sensations were the result of the actual paralysis; without it, she said, people would wander around in their sleep- and that made perfect sense to me, since there was more than one sleep walker in my year group at that time. I don't think I can fully describe the relief I felt, and the anger and confusion. How could doctors and therapists miss something so simple? I am older now, and know that doctors are not by any means infallible, and there is one thing that the books get right frighteningly often: the concerns of children and teenagers are usually written off as folly. But there it was- I had my answer, and suddenly, the horrors at night seemed less horrific. It's just as it is in the movies: when you can see the monster- when you can study it and see the cracks in its make-up and the flaws in its construction- it becomes much less frightening.
After that, I began reading up on sleep paralysis, still looking for answers. I had tried to ward off the nightmare visions with some of the things I had seen in horror movies (yes, really), and they had not worked, but perhaps science could give me some relief. Ironically, stress, lack of sleep and agitation are known to make sleep paralysis worse, which meant I had been trapped in a vicious cycle for most of my life, with my own fears making it more likely that I would suffer an attack. I tried to combat these things, but it was only when I reached my late twenties and was given an additional diagnosis of sleep apnoea (along with a CPAP machine to help me breathe at night) that the episodes dramatically lessened. It turns out that my body not only fails to wake up and go to sleep properly: it also forgets to keep me breathing! The doctor at the sleep clinic said I had one of the worst cases he's ever treated, with my body attempting to counteract the problem by waking me up repeatedly throughout the night, each time risking another episode of sleep paralysis. But with a CPAP machine to help me breathe, I now only have that risk once or twice a night, and the nightmare incidents have all but vanished. As a result, my depression has lessened, and my mood improved. I can concentrate better, and have more energy. Most importantly, though, I no longer dread going to bed at night! It seems strange to think that I was nearly thirty before I got a good night's sleep, and as I look back, I find it hard to remember exactly what it was like to live in a constant state of exhaustion. Really, though, I'm just glad that it never killed me- something that is a real possibility for people living with untreated sleep apnoea.
There is another benefit to leaving my sleep paralysis behind however: I am no longer desensitised to fear. The feeling of terror fades fast when it is not linked to a present and pressing situation, and experiencing terror is exactly what horror gives to us. Whether it is the long, lingering fear of a well-crafted ghost story, or the visceral repulsion of watching a gory dismemberment, horror allows us to explore intense emotions that the everyday world does not- or rather, should not. And yet, we are still fascinated by fear, and the thrill that we get from experiencing it. So, if you ever find me sitting up at night with a good book, it is because I now want to be scared, and not because I am searching for a way to escape from fear.
But I adapted. I would take short naps on car rides to and from school, and I learned which of my night-time visitors were 'safe' and which were not. The dark shape looming over me? That one I could ignore, because it never got too close. The shaking mattress? That would require parental intervention or it would get worse, and I would scream for help as soon as I found my voice. It affected other parts my life, too: most children have imaginary friends, and I was no exception, but mine were the things I saw at night. That served to isolate me from my peers at school. Other kids imagined playmates from their favourite TV shows, or fantastical creatures from fairy tales; my most prominent imaginary friend was a giant, shape-changing black mass with glowing red eyes, able to take on any form (including what I can only describe as a nightmarish My Little Pony, because let's face: every five year old wants a pony at some point!) I grew irritable and depressed, and if I could avoid going to sleep, then I would.
This all sounds pretty fantastical, I know, but my parents took it very seriously. Both myself and my brother are adopted, and there was concern that my 'nightmares' (a term that sent me into a rage, incidentally, because I was sure I was not sleeping when they happened) were the result of that very deep emotional trauma. I was sent to child therapists, who I tortured at length with drawings of my disturbing imaginary friends. My school teachers were kept on high alert, too, trying to decipher what it was that distressing me. I was taken to doctors, who said I would either grow out of it or was acting up for attention. I was taken to therapists, who all agreed I was a very imaginative child but that there was no underlying reason for my night terrors. One tentatively suggested I should be taken to see a priest; I never saw that therapist again, and, knowing my mother (and despite her Christian beliefs), I am sure that the hospital received a very strongly worded letter about it. But the incidents continued, and my family adjusted. My parents would sit upstairs for a while when I went to bed and only come down again once I was asleep, and even our dog did his part, coming in to check on me at night or keeping me company if I was too afraid to drift off. On nights like that I would sit up and read, or watch videos on my portable TV/VCR combo. I can't pin-point exactly when I turned to horror, but I was definitely a lot younger than I aught to have been. The things I saw in movies like The Exorcist seemed oddly comforting, as if seeing other people being thrown off their beds by unseen hands validated the things I had experienced myself. I began seeking horror out, looking for things that matched up to what I was going through. I was looking for answers, and it seemed that only the horror genre was able to give me any.
I think it is worth saying at this point that I do not actually believe in the supernatural, but I did, for a time. I consumed any media I could find about ghosts, demons, and even alien abductions- anything I could find that shared any of the features of what I had been going through. I went from being the angry miserable kid to the weird kid, the one you don't go near much, or only talked to if you wanted to hear about something strange. I slipped into the goth subculture, finding comfort in the idea that the dark and the macabre could be beautiful as well as terrifying. I started scouring second hand book shops for anything I could find that I knew I wasn't meant to read, and the stack of books my teachers had to confiscate from me (I used to read in class, rather than paying attention) began to look like a veritable who's who of classic horror, including such gems as Stephen King's IT and James Herbert's Shrine alongside slightly more age-appropriate offerings, like the Point Horror series. At one point, I actually had three copies of Jaws on the go, because one of my teachers was so determined to take it off me that I kept back-ups hidden in my locker. I am a very slow reader, but it's amazing how defying authority can motivate one to overcome difficulties and finish a book in record time. But no matter what I read, and what I tried, the horror I saw on the page and on the screen did not come close to the terror that haunted me at night. And so I began to love horror for another reason: in books and movies, the monsters rarely win. The invisible presence is exorcised, the demon thrown back into hell, and- most importantly- the un-believed victim is exonerated.
My own exoneration came much later. I was around fourteen and attending boarding school when one of the house mistresses finally had enough of my disruptive night time behaviour, and actually sat me down to ask me what was going on. I was already in a separate room by myself since my night time habits and general demeanour (combined with the fact that I was starting to realise that I was not actually a girl) made me an unpopular dorm-mate, but I was still causing trouble. My room was above the house mistress's room, and I think the sound of me pacing around or yelling at the shadows (which was how I made them go away when I woke up) grew old fast for her. So, one night at about 3am she came up to ask me what was going on. She brought me tea, and made me tell her everything. She had seen the pictures of my old imaginary friends thanks to school art projects, and had read some of the disturbing things I had written for my English assignments, but she was the first person to put the pieces together and finally give a name to the demon that he been haunting me.
“Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?”
Perhaps I had, in passing. Sleep paralysis is a common theme in many horror stories (including a few that I had read), being an easy mechanism to allow non-believers to discredit or overlook the plight of the victimised characters. I don't think I had ever realised that it was a real condition until then, writing it off as another fiction in my ever-growing pile of books and movies. The idea that the human body could mess up something as basic as waking up seemed ludicrous to me when I read it in works of fiction, but hearing about it from my sensible, no-nonsense house mistress was very different. She explained how the hallucinations were the mind's way of trying to interpret what was going on while the strange sensations were the result of the actual paralysis; without it, she said, people would wander around in their sleep- and that made perfect sense to me, since there was more than one sleep walker in my year group at that time. I don't think I can fully describe the relief I felt, and the anger and confusion. How could doctors and therapists miss something so simple? I am older now, and know that doctors are not by any means infallible, and there is one thing that the books get right frighteningly often: the concerns of children and teenagers are usually written off as folly. But there it was- I had my answer, and suddenly, the horrors at night seemed less horrific. It's just as it is in the movies: when you can see the monster- when you can study it and see the cracks in its make-up and the flaws in its construction- it becomes much less frightening.
After that, I began reading up on sleep paralysis, still looking for answers. I had tried to ward off the nightmare visions with some of the things I had seen in horror movies (yes, really), and they had not worked, but perhaps science could give me some relief. Ironically, stress, lack of sleep and agitation are known to make sleep paralysis worse, which meant I had been trapped in a vicious cycle for most of my life, with my own fears making it more likely that I would suffer an attack. I tried to combat these things, but it was only when I reached my late twenties and was given an additional diagnosis of sleep apnoea (along with a CPAP machine to help me breathe at night) that the episodes dramatically lessened. It turns out that my body not only fails to wake up and go to sleep properly: it also forgets to keep me breathing! The doctor at the sleep clinic said I had one of the worst cases he's ever treated, with my body attempting to counteract the problem by waking me up repeatedly throughout the night, each time risking another episode of sleep paralysis. But with a CPAP machine to help me breathe, I now only have that risk once or twice a night, and the nightmare incidents have all but vanished. As a result, my depression has lessened, and my mood improved. I can concentrate better, and have more energy. Most importantly, though, I no longer dread going to bed at night! It seems strange to think that I was nearly thirty before I got a good night's sleep, and as I look back, I find it hard to remember exactly what it was like to live in a constant state of exhaustion. Really, though, I'm just glad that it never killed me- something that is a real possibility for people living with untreated sleep apnoea.
There is another benefit to leaving my sleep paralysis behind however: I am no longer desensitised to fear. The feeling of terror fades fast when it is not linked to a present and pressing situation, and experiencing terror is exactly what horror gives to us. Whether it is the long, lingering fear of a well-crafted ghost story, or the visceral repulsion of watching a gory dismemberment, horror allows us to explore intense emotions that the everyday world does not- or rather, should not. And yet, we are still fascinated by fear, and the thrill that we get from experiencing it. So, if you ever find me sitting up at night with a good book, it is because I now want to be scared, and not because I am searching for a way to escape from fear.
ABOUT S R JONES
DEATH'S WHITE HANDS
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How Horror Crosses Borders
14/1/2019
People watch horror films because the want to be scared, and that is exactly why you choose that particular genre, in fact, you choose your entertainment because you want it to have some type of effect on you.
Those films that have the big effects draw millions of viewers, but most that watch them want a just resolution in the end or we are left feeling not exactly let down but wondering when the sequel is due out.
But it is true that a great many people love suspense, terror, mystery, shock and of course gore. The fear of death, but interestingly most do not like realism and would turn off a video that contained vivisection or real-life surgery on a child.
When you begin to think about it from a very young age, we were subject to a certain amount of suspense and sometimes horror through the fairy tales we were told. Fairy tales are full of fear and although a great many had a moral to them the point was put across in a slightly disturbing way.
Most of us have a film that scared us half to death when we watched it and those feelings stay with you to be remembered and mentioned in the future.
Another genre that has taken up the horror banner are slots games with a lot of the trusted new slots sites playing hosts to some of the most popular.
No one can really resist the Master of the Night and Dracula Slots remain popular being both traditional as well as classic which many players appreciate. Ok Dracula might be a bit old school for those that are into Freddy Krueger or Michael Myers, but there is still a niche for the Prince of Darkness.
Feed and get the bonuses....
I loved the title 28 Spins Later and for zombie fans who love Dawn of the Dead) both the original and the remake) as well as 28 Days Later the clever play on words works really well.
With a whole selection of weapons to gather as well as the odd first aid kit, 28 Spins Later is a def for zombie bashers.
Keeping to the same type of theme, The Walking Dead Slot Machine is one big title with possible Game of Thrones tipping the scales.
Like most of the tv-show themed slots the Walking Dead shows clips and sound bites from the show and features two spinning wheels.
Those films that have the big effects draw millions of viewers, but most that watch them want a just resolution in the end or we are left feeling not exactly let down but wondering when the sequel is due out.
But it is true that a great many people love suspense, terror, mystery, shock and of course gore. The fear of death, but interestingly most do not like realism and would turn off a video that contained vivisection or real-life surgery on a child.
When you begin to think about it from a very young age, we were subject to a certain amount of suspense and sometimes horror through the fairy tales we were told. Fairy tales are full of fear and although a great many had a moral to them the point was put across in a slightly disturbing way.
Most of us have a film that scared us half to death when we watched it and those feelings stay with you to be remembered and mentioned in the future.
Another genre that has taken up the horror banner are slots games with a lot of the trusted new slots sites playing hosts to some of the most popular.
No one can really resist the Master of the Night and Dracula Slots remain popular being both traditional as well as classic which many players appreciate. Ok Dracula might be a bit old school for those that are into Freddy Krueger or Michael Myers, but there is still a niche for the Prince of Darkness.
Feed and get the bonuses....
I loved the title 28 Spins Later and for zombie fans who love Dawn of the Dead) both the original and the remake) as well as 28 Days Later the clever play on words works really well.
With a whole selection of weapons to gather as well as the odd first aid kit, 28 Spins Later is a def for zombie bashers.
Keeping to the same type of theme, The Walking Dead Slot Machine is one big title with possible Game of Thrones tipping the scales.
Like most of the tv-show themed slots the Walking Dead shows clips and sound bites from the show and features two spinning wheels.
 |  |
For those of us who identify as LGBTQ (or however you want to put it), the application is one of perpetual contradiction.
On the one hand, it is a spectacular incidence: we wake up being as we are, feeling and thinking as we do, and it means next to nothing to us, in the same way that identifying as straight largely means nothing to straight people.
On the other, it is also a source of perpetual fascination and even obsession, a factor of our beings that becomes more significant (ironically) the more it becomes a source of potential judgement, danger and dehumanisation.
Speaking from my own experience as a gay man, the factor is very, very, very far down in the strata of self-identification, the myriad, shifting and conflicting factors that feed into the phenomena of personality. The fact that I am (almost) exclusively attracted on romantic and erotic levels to other guys largely means fuck all to me on a day to day basis; it simply is a matter of natural existence in the same way that I get thirsty for water or hungry for food.
However, it is also something that informs my experience of reality and being human in certain fundamental ways, which external factors generally insist should be more significant, one way or another, and which can be, under certain circumstances or frames of mind.
My own approach to the situation, both as a writer and consumer of all created media, is one of quiet celebration: it is a factor of my being that I am, of course, interested in exploring and expressing, but that I am NOT interested in allowing to consume or define me entirely.
The fact of my being gay is no more my entirety than it is anyone else's, nor should it be. Ironically, this is a factor that our traditional detractors and those that fancy themselves our enemies (as though they could ever muster the necessary wit or coherence to be that) harp upon in order to reframe their bigotry as something more reasonable: “Why is the matter of sexual orientation/gender identity so important?” they proclaim: “Surely there are other things you can hang your hats on?”
Oh, absolutely: in a bizarre way, I agree: insofar as I'm concerned, the fact of sexual orientation and/or gender identity are biological incidences and nothing more.
However, that doesn't mean that A: they are entirely insignificant to determining one's perception of self, reality and life experience, B: that they should not be expressed and discussed and analysed as much or as little as any other factor of existence and C: that this gives a free pass to those powers and forces that would deprive us of humanity on this apparent incidence.
It has been stated by some that the very notion of devoting a specific month or event to the celebration and/or discussion of LGBTQ writing is, in and of itself, divisive and tribalising, in the sense that it focuses upon what many would consider an incidental aspect of the writer's state and experience.
However, this begs the question: are there consistent themes, factors and subjects of identifying as LGBTQ that then filter down into our experessions, whatever form they take, and therefore lend the work we create qualities that are fundamentally removed from that created by people who identify as straight?
The very fact of this automatic question and the discussion that necessarily results demonstrates that looking at LGBTQ creators specifically, or even other traditionally under-represented demographics, may have degrees of academic and philosophical worth, beyond the usual political and socio-cultural parameters that tend to inform such exercises.
For example, is it possible that those who identify as straight might learn something from the writings of an LGBTQ writer regarding their experience of the world that they might not otherwise have taken into consideration? That might, in fact, transform their perspectives and states of mind on such matters? That might, if they are creators themselves, lead them to inform their own works and writings a little more appropriately and with greater verisimilitude than they might otherwise?
For me, the answer is a resounding yes. It is so clear as to be beyond argument that the work of LGBTQ creators will necessarily express experiences and concerns that are removed from that created by their straight counterparts, not to the diminishment or degradation of either, but providing contrast between the two that might serve to create a greater interplay of understanding and communication.
For example, it is highly unlikely that most straight couples will understand the degrees of necessary fear, anxiety and paranoia that LGBTQ couples operate in when it comes to matters such as expressing mild affection or comporting themselves as partners in public. Outside of some very niche sub-cultures, such pressures and concerns are things that simply do not apply to straight couples, but that those of us who identify as LGBTQ must absorb as part and parcel of our day to day interactions, which therefore necessarily become parts of our identities and will inevitably be expressed through whatever mediums we favour.
That situation in and of itself is a perfect cypher for story, a ready-made scenario from which wider character and concern might elaborate, but one that will always have more resonance and verisimilitude when written by someone who has directly experienced it.
There is a genuine danger here of falling into a familiar and very pervasive trap of identifying along lines that tradition and culture demands of us: that it imposes the role of “victim” or oppression on us -based on an incidence of our beings- in order to exercise some containment or control over what might otherwise prove to be a demographic whose natures, identities and expressions are corrosive to tradition and proscribed narratives. In that, there is something to be said for refuting that identity, but that doesn't mean ignoring the base fact of the issue altogether. It ultimately doesn't matter how much ideological denial you throw at a boot that's being hammered into your face or gut: it is still a boot in your face and gut.
There is, therefore, a tacit fear of violence that is part and parcel of identifying as LGBTQ, a hostility and sense of alienation that is enshrined within tradition, history and proscribed by many, many societal systems and socio-cultural assumptions. Even though great strides have been made regarding acceptance of LGBTQ identities, the residue of those assumptions and traditions still lingers heavily and unspoken in society and culture at large, meaning that certain pressures and concerns exist for those of us who identify as LGBTQ that do not necessarily (or so pervasively) exist for those who identify otherwise.
The fear of rejection and violence, the resultant despairs, transience, chemical-dependencies, extreme lifestyles and myriad forms of depression and neurosis are well documented in psychological study: LGBTQ individuals are far more likely to suffer from depressive conditions than their straight counterparts and are far, far more likely to inflict violence on themselves or become the victims of violence.
Fertile breeding ground for horror, yes? And certainly cultural phenomenon which horror fiction is uniquely well suited to exploring and expressing.
Yet, for all that, these subjects are still, even now, hideously under-represented in mainstream horror fiction. One or two notable figures have managed to claw enough significance for themselves in order to bring these factors to some murky corner of popular acknowledgement, but even those works which directly address or explore these issues tend to be regarded as niche and are generally less popular than work which shies away from direct analysis and tends more towards traditional subjects and emphases for the genre.
The aforementioned magnum opus that is Clive Barker's Sacrament is one such example, that has arguably managed to explore these factors in a popular (or at least, cult) arena by elevating itself beyond them; by transgressing so far beyond proscribed argument and parameters of discussion, that it often comes across as baffling to those who do not directly identify with the experiences it explores.
Likewise, there is the work of Billy Martin (AKA, Poppy Z. Brite), a writer whose work is much more directly attuned to the day to day grit and dirt and despairs of what might generally be considered LGBTQ culture, that foregoes the expansive metaphysics that Barker opts to explore in favour of a warts-and-all honesty, which simultaneously celebrates the extremity and fervour and transgressive passion of identifying as LGBTQ whilst also acknowledging and expressing the darkness inherent.
Like Barker's work, Billy's is not exclusive: whilst many of his characters are sexually fluid (one might argue opportunistic, which, as myriad studies demonstrate, is part and parcel of identifying as male), there are numerous recurring characters that identify as straight or are more generally straight-leaning than otherwise. One of the more interesting elements of Billy's work is that he does not exclude straight characters from the phenomena that his LGBTQ characters experience; rather, he generally draws parallels between the two, delving into myriad depths and spectrums of misery and confusion that are part and parcel of humanity rather than being exclusive to one particular demographic or sets of demographics. His principle focus on LGBTQ characters derives from his own experience: he is, like Barker (and, like myself) a gay man, and his writing is very legitimately that: its voice is so powerfully of the experience of gay men, that when I first read it, I found myself powerfully confused as to his (then) identity as the female writer Poppy Z. Brite. In no way, did I say to myself, is this the work of a woman: it is too intimately, powerfully, evocatively the voice of a gay man seething through this prose and these experiences. Of course, later, I discovered that this was exactly the case.
That is not to say that a straight or gay woman could not have written these works. It is simply that: there is a level of immediacy here and fidelity that can only derive from direct experience, that talks to me as a gay man perhaps more powerfully than any fiction I have ever read. This is, in large part, owing to its honesty: whilst it, like Barker's Sacrament, definitely celebrates the status of identifying as LGBTQ, it also does not shy away from the darker, uglier elements of those definitions: the pressures, issues, suffering and lamentations that are part and parcel: the incredible distance from parental figures and familial structures that is not a universal element of identifying as LGBTQ, but is -anectdotally- an extremely pervasive and common one, even for those of us whose parents and families are generally accepting, the sexual extremity that is a natural by-product of repression of natural inclination and appetite, the lack of anchorage that often plagues LGBTQ individuals well into their middle-age, lacking, as we so often do, the proscribed narratives and cultural roles that our straight counterparts simultaneously benefit and suffer from.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in Martin's seminal novel, Exquisite Corpse, a narrative that derives influences from as wide a variety of subjects as actually existing serial killers (most notably, Dennis Nilsen and Jeffrey Dahmer), the gay scenes of late 1980s/early 1990s London and New Orleans, right-wing news and radio shock-jocks such as Rush Limbaugh et al and so many other sources and influences, it is impossible to clearly catalogue them.
Whilst the novel is generally regarded as an extreme piece of overt horror, following the exploits of two serial killers who operate in divergent arenas until fate and circumstance conspire to bring them together, beyond the incredibly graphic and sensual depictions of pain, mutilation and murder, the novel is an exploration of social disenfranchisement, of how the lack of social anchorage so often places young LGBTQ men (the novel is almost exclusively an exploration of the male experience in this regard) in places of extreme vulnerability, one way or another.
There are so few innocent parties in this book, so few characters that are not powerfully loathsome in one way or another, and yet, all of them are not only identifiable -particularly for those of us who have operated to some degree in LGBTQ scenes and cultures-, but also sympathetic.
The two protagonists, who, in any other novel, story, would be the antagonists, are pure psychopaths: sensualists, egotists, lacking in any degree of restraint or moderation, except when it relates exclusively to their self preservation. They are violent and predatory and deviant and monstrous. Yet, Martin paints them with exactly the same brush, in exactly the same degree of human intimacy as their victims, as the ostensible “innocents” that operate around them. Whilst it might be something of a generalisation, I have little doubt that, were this same story written by a straight writer, these two characters would have been far more distant, far more alien, far more monstrous than they are portrayed here. These two are not monsters or demons or aliens; they are human in a way and to an intenseity that is disturbing, as we, the reader, are drawn into their twilight world of seductions and predations, of violent appetites and cannibalistic sexuality. The novel dares to explore the sordid joy that these two experience in their activities and make it the reader's own, turning moments that might otherwise be painted exclusively in the language and patina of horror into something darkly beautiful, distressingly celebratory, even when it's characters we have come to know and adore upon the chopping block.
By the same token, characters that are ostensibly innocent, not part of this realm of blood and pain and sadism, are often painted in extremely negative ways, their domestic flaws, their comparatively picayune neuroses, exposed as hateful and petty and cruel. This is as true of the most sympathetic characters in the book as it is of the most loathsome: hardly anyone in this world escapes untarnished. They are all collectively human, and therefore as broken, scarred, disturbed and despairing as one another, each of them swirling around the great toilet bowl of existence, trying to find some purchase before they are inevitably flushed away.
In that, Martin deliberately drawers parallels between what might otherwise be divergant or even contradictory states of human experience: striving and suffering, Martin seems to argue, are not unique, not exclusive to any one particular state or identity or demographic: victims are we all, in our myriad and bleakly various ways. It is simply that, owing to the nature of history, tradition and socio-cultural assumptions, some of us are placed in greater degrees of vulnerability and potential victimhood by the enshrined oppression and denial that is part and parcel of our born conditions.
More than anything, the novel is one of tragedy, and tragedy that is, in many instances, wholly avoidable: whilst Martin doesn't necessarily come out and say it outright, the victims here are as much victims of society and humanity generally as they are of the psychopaths and predators amongst them: were it not for the culture of rejection, familial exile, lacking of anchorage and the general states of bohemianism and extremity that have developed in response to culture's oppressions and denials, then the predators would not have an arena in which to hunt. They would not have the freedom to move as they do amongst the sheep and to pick out their intended victims with such impunity. They would literally starve or turn on themselves for want of succour.
This factor comes to a head towards the book's climax, when the only arguable innocent in the book, who is painted as a near-angelic, androgynous beauty, could have been saved, were the systems in place what they advertise themselves as: were they not merely simply accruals of sickness and privilege and protection for the powerful: rather than helping the clearly wounded, disoriented young man, the local police deliver him directly into the arms of his tormentor and killer, then take time to abuse and beat the man who might be his salvation.
Martin's disregard for the police, for law, for societal systems, is not an uncommon quality down here amongst what I suppose I might ostensibly describe as my tribe: many of us have experiences with such systems that are far, far from pleasant, to the point whereby many of us refuse to contact or make use of them, even when it is necessary to do so.
Here, we see written large the fact that society regards even its most beautiful sons as bits of gristle caught between its teeth, to be plucked out and spat away, or swallowed and digested. The world Martin paints is intensely real for many of us, so close to the knuckle that it arouses emotion that is difficult to contain or disguise, be that arousal, anger, fear or a confusion of more than we can clearly label.
Like Sacrament, Exquisite Corpse is essential, utterly essential reading for young LGBTQ men and women, as it provides some stark and undiluted portraits of situations that they are likely to face, to one degree or another, and does so in such a manner that is non-didactic, non-judgemental, non-finger-wagging. It is merely an expression of experience, describing what its characters think and feel in their given circumstances, leaving the reader to determine judgement, relative morality etc.
On a personal level, Exquisite Corpse was a powerful and inspiring motivator, one of those books that crystallised certain inchoate perspectives and ideas in my own mind, that expressed so much of my own experience as a lost, wandering, uncertain and unhappy twenty-something, not knowing what place -if any- he had in society, amongst humanity, not particularly caring if either of them provided one.
This is the genius of Martin's work in general: it is of such fidelity, such earnest and uncompromised emotion and experience, it is impossible for it not to resonate with particular audiences, to provide for us what mainstream literature very often does not, even when it is specifically marketed to us (I can count the number of works I have read that are specifically categorised as “LGBTQ fiction” that have had any genuine emotional or experiential resonance on the fingers of one hand).
And its like is essential. Utterly essential to ensuring that, even if we remain lost, we at least find something in that status to celebrate, some poetry that society and culture at large would otherwise deny us. And, from there, to perhaps accrue or imagine for ourselves some greater, more personal mythology.
On the one hand, it is a spectacular incidence: we wake up being as we are, feeling and thinking as we do, and it means next to nothing to us, in the same way that identifying as straight largely means nothing to straight people.
On the other, it is also a source of perpetual fascination and even obsession, a factor of our beings that becomes more significant (ironically) the more it becomes a source of potential judgement, danger and dehumanisation.
Speaking from my own experience as a gay man, the factor is very, very, very far down in the strata of self-identification, the myriad, shifting and conflicting factors that feed into the phenomena of personality. The fact that I am (almost) exclusively attracted on romantic and erotic levels to other guys largely means fuck all to me on a day to day basis; it simply is a matter of natural existence in the same way that I get thirsty for water or hungry for food.
However, it is also something that informs my experience of reality and being human in certain fundamental ways, which external factors generally insist should be more significant, one way or another, and which can be, under certain circumstances or frames of mind.
My own approach to the situation, both as a writer and consumer of all created media, is one of quiet celebration: it is a factor of my being that I am, of course, interested in exploring and expressing, but that I am NOT interested in allowing to consume or define me entirely.
The fact of my being gay is no more my entirety than it is anyone else's, nor should it be. Ironically, this is a factor that our traditional detractors and those that fancy themselves our enemies (as though they could ever muster the necessary wit or coherence to be that) harp upon in order to reframe their bigotry as something more reasonable: “Why is the matter of sexual orientation/gender identity so important?” they proclaim: “Surely there are other things you can hang your hats on?”
Oh, absolutely: in a bizarre way, I agree: insofar as I'm concerned, the fact of sexual orientation and/or gender identity are biological incidences and nothing more.
However, that doesn't mean that A: they are entirely insignificant to determining one's perception of self, reality and life experience, B: that they should not be expressed and discussed and analysed as much or as little as any other factor of existence and C: that this gives a free pass to those powers and forces that would deprive us of humanity on this apparent incidence.
It has been stated by some that the very notion of devoting a specific month or event to the celebration and/or discussion of LGBTQ writing is, in and of itself, divisive and tribalising, in the sense that it focuses upon what many would consider an incidental aspect of the writer's state and experience.
However, this begs the question: are there consistent themes, factors and subjects of identifying as LGBTQ that then filter down into our experessions, whatever form they take, and therefore lend the work we create qualities that are fundamentally removed from that created by people who identify as straight?
The very fact of this automatic question and the discussion that necessarily results demonstrates that looking at LGBTQ creators specifically, or even other traditionally under-represented demographics, may have degrees of academic and philosophical worth, beyond the usual political and socio-cultural parameters that tend to inform such exercises.
For example, is it possible that those who identify as straight might learn something from the writings of an LGBTQ writer regarding their experience of the world that they might not otherwise have taken into consideration? That might, in fact, transform their perspectives and states of mind on such matters? That might, if they are creators themselves, lead them to inform their own works and writings a little more appropriately and with greater verisimilitude than they might otherwise?
For me, the answer is a resounding yes. It is so clear as to be beyond argument that the work of LGBTQ creators will necessarily express experiences and concerns that are removed from that created by their straight counterparts, not to the diminishment or degradation of either, but providing contrast between the two that might serve to create a greater interplay of understanding and communication.
For example, it is highly unlikely that most straight couples will understand the degrees of necessary fear, anxiety and paranoia that LGBTQ couples operate in when it comes to matters such as expressing mild affection or comporting themselves as partners in public. Outside of some very niche sub-cultures, such pressures and concerns are things that simply do not apply to straight couples, but that those of us who identify as LGBTQ must absorb as part and parcel of our day to day interactions, which therefore necessarily become parts of our identities and will inevitably be expressed through whatever mediums we favour.
That situation in and of itself is a perfect cypher for story, a ready-made scenario from which wider character and concern might elaborate, but one that will always have more resonance and verisimilitude when written by someone who has directly experienced it.
There is a genuine danger here of falling into a familiar and very pervasive trap of identifying along lines that tradition and culture demands of us: that it imposes the role of “victim” or oppression on us -based on an incidence of our beings- in order to exercise some containment or control over what might otherwise prove to be a demographic whose natures, identities and expressions are corrosive to tradition and proscribed narratives. In that, there is something to be said for refuting that identity, but that doesn't mean ignoring the base fact of the issue altogether. It ultimately doesn't matter how much ideological denial you throw at a boot that's being hammered into your face or gut: it is still a boot in your face and gut.
There is, therefore, a tacit fear of violence that is part and parcel of identifying as LGBTQ, a hostility and sense of alienation that is enshrined within tradition, history and proscribed by many, many societal systems and socio-cultural assumptions. Even though great strides have been made regarding acceptance of LGBTQ identities, the residue of those assumptions and traditions still lingers heavily and unspoken in society and culture at large, meaning that certain pressures and concerns exist for those of us who identify as LGBTQ that do not necessarily (or so pervasively) exist for those who identify otherwise.
The fear of rejection and violence, the resultant despairs, transience, chemical-dependencies, extreme lifestyles and myriad forms of depression and neurosis are well documented in psychological study: LGBTQ individuals are far more likely to suffer from depressive conditions than their straight counterparts and are far, far more likely to inflict violence on themselves or become the victims of violence.
Fertile breeding ground for horror, yes? And certainly cultural phenomenon which horror fiction is uniquely well suited to exploring and expressing.
Yet, for all that, these subjects are still, even now, hideously under-represented in mainstream horror fiction. One or two notable figures have managed to claw enough significance for themselves in order to bring these factors to some murky corner of popular acknowledgement, but even those works which directly address or explore these issues tend to be regarded as niche and are generally less popular than work which shies away from direct analysis and tends more towards traditional subjects and emphases for the genre.
The aforementioned magnum opus that is Clive Barker's Sacrament is one such example, that has arguably managed to explore these factors in a popular (or at least, cult) arena by elevating itself beyond them; by transgressing so far beyond proscribed argument and parameters of discussion, that it often comes across as baffling to those who do not directly identify with the experiences it explores.
Likewise, there is the work of Billy Martin (AKA, Poppy Z. Brite), a writer whose work is much more directly attuned to the day to day grit and dirt and despairs of what might generally be considered LGBTQ culture, that foregoes the expansive metaphysics that Barker opts to explore in favour of a warts-and-all honesty, which simultaneously celebrates the extremity and fervour and transgressive passion of identifying as LGBTQ whilst also acknowledging and expressing the darkness inherent.
Like Barker's work, Billy's is not exclusive: whilst many of his characters are sexually fluid (one might argue opportunistic, which, as myriad studies demonstrate, is part and parcel of identifying as male), there are numerous recurring characters that identify as straight or are more generally straight-leaning than otherwise. One of the more interesting elements of Billy's work is that he does not exclude straight characters from the phenomena that his LGBTQ characters experience; rather, he generally draws parallels between the two, delving into myriad depths and spectrums of misery and confusion that are part and parcel of humanity rather than being exclusive to one particular demographic or sets of demographics. His principle focus on LGBTQ characters derives from his own experience: he is, like Barker (and, like myself) a gay man, and his writing is very legitimately that: its voice is so powerfully of the experience of gay men, that when I first read it, I found myself powerfully confused as to his (then) identity as the female writer Poppy Z. Brite. In no way, did I say to myself, is this the work of a woman: it is too intimately, powerfully, evocatively the voice of a gay man seething through this prose and these experiences. Of course, later, I discovered that this was exactly the case.
That is not to say that a straight or gay woman could not have written these works. It is simply that: there is a level of immediacy here and fidelity that can only derive from direct experience, that talks to me as a gay man perhaps more powerfully than any fiction I have ever read. This is, in large part, owing to its honesty: whilst it, like Barker's Sacrament, definitely celebrates the status of identifying as LGBTQ, it also does not shy away from the darker, uglier elements of those definitions: the pressures, issues, suffering and lamentations that are part and parcel: the incredible distance from parental figures and familial structures that is not a universal element of identifying as LGBTQ, but is -anectdotally- an extremely pervasive and common one, even for those of us whose parents and families are generally accepting, the sexual extremity that is a natural by-product of repression of natural inclination and appetite, the lack of anchorage that often plagues LGBTQ individuals well into their middle-age, lacking, as we so often do, the proscribed narratives and cultural roles that our straight counterparts simultaneously benefit and suffer from.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in Martin's seminal novel, Exquisite Corpse, a narrative that derives influences from as wide a variety of subjects as actually existing serial killers (most notably, Dennis Nilsen and Jeffrey Dahmer), the gay scenes of late 1980s/early 1990s London and New Orleans, right-wing news and radio shock-jocks such as Rush Limbaugh et al and so many other sources and influences, it is impossible to clearly catalogue them.
Whilst the novel is generally regarded as an extreme piece of overt horror, following the exploits of two serial killers who operate in divergent arenas until fate and circumstance conspire to bring them together, beyond the incredibly graphic and sensual depictions of pain, mutilation and murder, the novel is an exploration of social disenfranchisement, of how the lack of social anchorage so often places young LGBTQ men (the novel is almost exclusively an exploration of the male experience in this regard) in places of extreme vulnerability, one way or another.
There are so few innocent parties in this book, so few characters that are not powerfully loathsome in one way or another, and yet, all of them are not only identifiable -particularly for those of us who have operated to some degree in LGBTQ scenes and cultures-, but also sympathetic.
The two protagonists, who, in any other novel, story, would be the antagonists, are pure psychopaths: sensualists, egotists, lacking in any degree of restraint or moderation, except when it relates exclusively to their self preservation. They are violent and predatory and deviant and monstrous. Yet, Martin paints them with exactly the same brush, in exactly the same degree of human intimacy as their victims, as the ostensible “innocents” that operate around them. Whilst it might be something of a generalisation, I have little doubt that, were this same story written by a straight writer, these two characters would have been far more distant, far more alien, far more monstrous than they are portrayed here. These two are not monsters or demons or aliens; they are human in a way and to an intenseity that is disturbing, as we, the reader, are drawn into their twilight world of seductions and predations, of violent appetites and cannibalistic sexuality. The novel dares to explore the sordid joy that these two experience in their activities and make it the reader's own, turning moments that might otherwise be painted exclusively in the language and patina of horror into something darkly beautiful, distressingly celebratory, even when it's characters we have come to know and adore upon the chopping block.
By the same token, characters that are ostensibly innocent, not part of this realm of blood and pain and sadism, are often painted in extremely negative ways, their domestic flaws, their comparatively picayune neuroses, exposed as hateful and petty and cruel. This is as true of the most sympathetic characters in the book as it is of the most loathsome: hardly anyone in this world escapes untarnished. They are all collectively human, and therefore as broken, scarred, disturbed and despairing as one another, each of them swirling around the great toilet bowl of existence, trying to find some purchase before they are inevitably flushed away.
In that, Martin deliberately drawers parallels between what might otherwise be divergant or even contradictory states of human experience: striving and suffering, Martin seems to argue, are not unique, not exclusive to any one particular state or identity or demographic: victims are we all, in our myriad and bleakly various ways. It is simply that, owing to the nature of history, tradition and socio-cultural assumptions, some of us are placed in greater degrees of vulnerability and potential victimhood by the enshrined oppression and denial that is part and parcel of our born conditions.
More than anything, the novel is one of tragedy, and tragedy that is, in many instances, wholly avoidable: whilst Martin doesn't necessarily come out and say it outright, the victims here are as much victims of society and humanity generally as they are of the psychopaths and predators amongst them: were it not for the culture of rejection, familial exile, lacking of anchorage and the general states of bohemianism and extremity that have developed in response to culture's oppressions and denials, then the predators would not have an arena in which to hunt. They would not have the freedom to move as they do amongst the sheep and to pick out their intended victims with such impunity. They would literally starve or turn on themselves for want of succour.
This factor comes to a head towards the book's climax, when the only arguable innocent in the book, who is painted as a near-angelic, androgynous beauty, could have been saved, were the systems in place what they advertise themselves as: were they not merely simply accruals of sickness and privilege and protection for the powerful: rather than helping the clearly wounded, disoriented young man, the local police deliver him directly into the arms of his tormentor and killer, then take time to abuse and beat the man who might be his salvation.
Martin's disregard for the police, for law, for societal systems, is not an uncommon quality down here amongst what I suppose I might ostensibly describe as my tribe: many of us have experiences with such systems that are far, far from pleasant, to the point whereby many of us refuse to contact or make use of them, even when it is necessary to do so.
Here, we see written large the fact that society regards even its most beautiful sons as bits of gristle caught between its teeth, to be plucked out and spat away, or swallowed and digested. The world Martin paints is intensely real for many of us, so close to the knuckle that it arouses emotion that is difficult to contain or disguise, be that arousal, anger, fear or a confusion of more than we can clearly label.
Like Sacrament, Exquisite Corpse is essential, utterly essential reading for young LGBTQ men and women, as it provides some stark and undiluted portraits of situations that they are likely to face, to one degree or another, and does so in such a manner that is non-didactic, non-judgemental, non-finger-wagging. It is merely an expression of experience, describing what its characters think and feel in their given circumstances, leaving the reader to determine judgement, relative morality etc.
On a personal level, Exquisite Corpse was a powerful and inspiring motivator, one of those books that crystallised certain inchoate perspectives and ideas in my own mind, that expressed so much of my own experience as a lost, wandering, uncertain and unhappy twenty-something, not knowing what place -if any- he had in society, amongst humanity, not particularly caring if either of them provided one.
This is the genius of Martin's work in general: it is of such fidelity, such earnest and uncompromised emotion and experience, it is impossible for it not to resonate with particular audiences, to provide for us what mainstream literature very often does not, even when it is specifically marketed to us (I can count the number of works I have read that are specifically categorised as “LGBTQ fiction” that have had any genuine emotional or experiential resonance on the fingers of one hand).
And its like is essential. Utterly essential to ensuring that, even if we remain lost, we at least find something in that status to celebrate, some poetry that society and culture at large would otherwise deny us. And, from there, to perhaps accrue or imagine for ourselves some greater, more personal mythology.
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Brian Kirk's novel Will Haunt You was inspired by a couple from his neighborhood who disappeared after finding a strange book in their home. Brian witnessed this event happening live on the neighborhood website Nextdoor.com, and has provided screen grabs of the ordeal, along with his reactions to each post as he watched the drama unfold. Click the following links to get caught up before reading the dramatic conclusion to this spooky mystery
OBSIDEO:
Part 1 at Inkheist
Part 2 at SciFi and Scary and at Horror Talk
Part 3 at Char’s Horror Corner, and Zakk’s Eyes of Madness
Part 4: Night Worms
Part 5: Ginger Nuts of Horror and Kendall Reviews
Part 1 at Inkheist
Part 2 at SciFi and Scary and at Horror Talk
Part 3 at Char’s Horror Corner, and Zakk’s Eyes of Madness
Part 4: Night Worms
Part 5: Ginger Nuts of Horror and Kendall Reviews
The conclusion, read on if you are brave enough....
These are the last known images of my neighbor Nancy. But I don’t believe her story has ended. In fact, something tells me it’s just begun. The book I wrote, I now know why it came to me so clearly. I wish I could take it all back.
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Some stories should be left alone. This is one of them.
OBSIDEO was just the beginning. The novel inspired by this mysterious encounter is now available for pre-order. Read at your own risk availaible to purchase from your local Amazon store by clicking here
You don't read the book. It reads you.
Rumors of a deadly book have been floating around the dark corners of the deep web. A disturbing tale about a mysterious figure who preys on those who read the book and subjects them to a world of personalized terror. Jesse Wheeler―former guitarist of the heavy metal group The Rising Dead―was quick to discount the ominous folklore associated with the book. It takes more than some urban legend to frighten him. Hell, reality is scary enough. Seven years ago his greatest responsibility was the nightly guitar solo. Then one night when Jesse was blackout drunk, he accidentally injured his son, leaving him permanently disabled. Dreams of being a rock star died when he destroyed his son's future. Now he cuts radio jingles and fights to stay clean.
But Jesse is wrong. The legend is real―and tonight he will become the protagonist in an elaborate scheme specifically tailored to prey on his fears and resurrect the ghosts from his past. Jesse is not the only one in danger, however.
By reading the book, you have volunteered to participate in the author's deadly game, with every page drawing you closer to your own personalized nightmare.
The real horror doesn't begin until you reach the end. That's when the evil comes for you.
Rumors of a deadly book have been floating around the dark corners of the deep web. A disturbing tale about a mysterious figure who preys on those who read the book and subjects them to a world of personalized terror. Jesse Wheeler―former guitarist of the heavy metal group The Rising Dead―was quick to discount the ominous folklore associated with the book. It takes more than some urban legend to frighten him. Hell, reality is scary enough. Seven years ago his greatest responsibility was the nightly guitar solo. Then one night when Jesse was blackout drunk, he accidentally injured his son, leaving him permanently disabled. Dreams of being a rock star died when he destroyed his son's future. Now he cuts radio jingles and fights to stay clean.
But Jesse is wrong. The legend is real―and tonight he will become the protagonist in an elaborate scheme specifically tailored to prey on his fears and resurrect the ghosts from his past. Jesse is not the only one in danger, however.
By reading the book, you have volunteered to participate in the author's deadly game, with every page drawing you closer to your own personalized nightmare.
The real horror doesn't begin until you reach the end. That's when the evil comes for you.
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