Storytellersunplugged

By Michael Laimo

Okay, I write horror, some pretty nasty, sick, vile, stuff too. I like my horror that way. The wetter, the better. But it’s all MAKE BELIEVE folks, I’m not really like that. I don’t go around with pickaxes gouging out the eyes of puppy dogs. I don’t have a demon throne in my cellar. I don’t eat entrails for dinner.

I don’t do anything I write about in my books…except argue with my wife, perhaps. But that’s something else altogether.

So, why do people judge me because I write horror?

Now, don’t get me wrong. Most people who read my work expect some nasty escapist ride into previously untrodden territories. They want their prose thick and dark and dripping with yucky things. They want spiders. They want guts. They want monsters and demons and sacrilegious happenings. And they get them. But, there’s some people who, well, they just don’t get it. Case in point: in DEEP IN THE DARKNESS, a dog is sacrificed on a stone. He is killed by his master, choked to death. Yep, that’s a pretty cruel thing to do to a puppy…but it didn’t really happen, folks, you know? I’ve received dozens of e-mails from animal lovers condemning me to hell for penning this little tidbit. My answer to them was: uh, hello, what about ALL THE HUMANS THAT WERE MASSACRED? Ohhhhh…that type of stuff is supposed to happen in horror novels. It’s okay for humans to get killed, but not little innocent puppy dogs. And, for those few readers who actually think I actually enjoyed killing the dog on paper…guess what? I DID! I enjoyed writing every line in that book, in all my books for that matter. I love to write horror, simple as that.

But wait, it gets worse. Much worse. I’ve been disowned by some people I know, because I write horror. Here are the two most glaring instances of being judged because I write horror:

I work for a swimwear company in Manhattan’s garment district. It’s a large office building, and on my floor, there are a few other companies. There’s a number of people that work at these companies that I’ve become friendly with. One gal, a 24 year-old from Long Island, had lunch with me a couple of months ago. I’d told her I was a writer, that I’d had a couple of novels published. She, like most people, showed an interest (feigned or not), so I gave her a copy of DEEP IN THE DARKNESS. She said thanks, asked a bit about it, then said she’d give it a read. Well, a few days went by, then a week. Not only did I not see this girl anymore, but I did not hear from her either. My e-mails went unanswered. Finally, after two weeks, I bumped into her in the hall (it was inevitable, really). She’d said, “We need to talk.” Hrmmm, serious stuff. I’m thinking, what did I do? What did I say?

We meet for coffee an hour later and she hands me an envelope—mind you now, she’s holding the envelope like it’s been dipped in ka-ka. She says, “This is for you.” I open the envelope and inside is my book. She then adds, “I can’t keep it.”

“Why? Did you read it?” I ask.

She nods, then says, “I started it.”

“Oh, you didn’t like it…” I say, then add, “Well, you don’t have to give it back to me. Give it to a friend.”

She smiles thinly, and then I get blown away: “I can’t associate myself with this matter…I’m a Christian, and it’s against my beliefs.”

I think she’s kidding, so naturally I ask, “You’re kidding, right?”

She shakes her head, then blows me away again: “And I can’t associate myself with you. This is strongly against my beliefs.”

Now, I’m flabbergasted. I say, “Hold on…this is solely creative exploration. No different than someone who writes romance, plays Jazz, or carves ice sculptures.” I feel like a turd defending myself, but see no choice but standing up for my beliefs.

She says, “Anyone who writes about this kind of matter must have some personal association or attraction with it, and I don’t feel right being around someone like that.”

And with that, I stand up and say, “This is the reason why we have wars and terrorism. Because of extreme, narrowminded, religious beliefs.” I take my book and walk away. It was a hard thing to do, as I’m not one to make enemies, but damn if that didn’t hurt.

I will tell you that I had a great writing session that afternoon.

But wait, it gets better—you think this gal was bad, wait until you hear this:

I moved into my neighborhood about 8 years ago. Everyone was very friendly, welcomed us, blah blah. My next door neighbors, a family, were enthusiastic to have us there. Baked us pies, always went out of their way to make us feel comfortable. At the time, their little girl was 8. My wife and I had our first daughter, and their little girl was over all the time to help out with the baby. She became a mother’s helper to my wife in the afternoon after school, and we even started paying her for her time.

Time passed. I’d had two novels published. I’d never mentioned to my neighbor (now I feel the need to add in the fact that they are also Christians, and quite devout in their ways; not a bad thing, unless you are judgmental of others who’ve nothing against you) that I was a writer. I’d had a local booksigning planned. One day, while the father was over chatting with my wife, I came home from work, and finally mentioned to him that I was a novelist and had a signing at the local Barnes & Noble. I thought he’d be impressed.

Little did I know.

I can’t even properly put into words the look on his face when I showed him a copy of DEEP IN THE DARKNESS. It was like The Devil showed up on his doorstep and threatened to haul his children away in a cauldron. He handed the book back to me. He stuttered. He feigned a grin, and went home.

After that, they stopped visiting. The stopped waving hello. The little girl stopped coming over. They didn’t return calls. We didn’t think anything of it until our daughter, at the time three, started asking for the little girl. I told my wife, “You know, ever since I told him about my horror writing, we’ve been cut off.”

We’ve confronted them since then, asked what we did wrong, but were pretty much cold-shouldered.

Eh…fuck ‘em.

So, they do their thing, like go to church on Sundays and continue to ignore us, and I continue to write horror (amongst some other vices I’m sure the neighbors wouldn’t approve of). I’ve learned my lesson: no matter what the issue at hand, whether it be horror writing or religion, people will pass judgment. Just as the religious folk (at least the ones mentioned above) will judge me because I write horror, I will judge them for their closemindedness. But one thing is for certain: I would never shun them for their beliefs.