Storytellersunplugged

Why do we love to be frightened? It’s a question I’ve mulled over throughout my forty short years. I’m now working on my Jerusalem’s Undead Trilogy, hoping that it will raise a few neck hairs, and yet my most recent work in the stores is a novelization of an inspirational sports film. Yes, in a sense, I am “switching horses” as our most recent poster advised.

Fear comes in all shapes and sizes, and we seem to find pleasure–sometimes perversely–in some of them. Three quick examples. Then a paradoxical form of fear (can anyone spell…r-e-l-i-g-i-o-n?). No easy answers. Just some late-night thoughts.

#1: My daughters, even while infants unable to talk, loved a good game of peekaboo. They cooed and giggled with the anticipation of a good scare. A little kiddie adrenaline rush was the goal, and they were all for that. The only times it didn’t work were those when the “monster,” usually a well-meaning relative, forgot to let the girls know that the game had begun. With the rules of engagement not yet established, tears were sure to flow. In general, my children loved the thrills and chills, the little jolts of surprise, and the relieving bouts of laughter. We didn’t intellectualize the process for them; they knew and appreciated it instinctively.

#2: My oldest daughter, now a teenager, asked me to accompany her and her boyfriend to Rob Zombie’s “Halloween” last Friday night. I was their ticket into the R-rated film, and–no really, you have to take my word on this–my daughter wanted me there. She likes watching scary movies with good ol’ Dad. Twisted as it may sound, she introduced me to “Saw.” She enjoys jumping out of her seat, screaming, covering her eyes, all the while facing real fears in a “safe” way. The rules are in place. She begs for more of that heart-pumping excitement. Ahhh, my little adrenaline junkie’s growing up.

#3: I have this thing about heights. They scare me. Scare the living piss outta me, if you wanna know the truth. (Probably the dead piss too.) And yet, I can’t help but peer over the edge of those soaring bridges in the Rockies, or peek down into the depths of the Grand Canyon. My heart pounds, my palms sweat, and I still embrace that rush of I’m-about-to-freak-out fear.

So is it all about fear in safe parameters? Is it all about facing on surface levels those things that deeply haunt us?

The paradoxical fear I’ve known is that of religion. There’s the obvious one: “If you do this or that, Johnny Boy, you’ll be headed for the fires of hell.” Yawn. We’ve all heard it. The way I see it, if God’s got nothing better than that to win us over, than maybe we really are lost. I did grow up on the fringes of that church environment. Even when love was the theme, fear was lurking on the edges. Fear of the abortionists, the Democrats, Kissinger, Gorbachev, the New World Order, and Hussein. Always something to keep us attending, tithing, praying, whatever. For heaven’s sake, why do Christians have to be so afraid of everything? I do believe in a living, loving Jesus–and I didn’t make that choice based on fear–but I seriously wonder about some of the stuff I see! Lord have mercy.

So where does fear fit in? We’re small, finite creatures. We’re also intelligent enough to do all sorts of damage. We’re aware of basic social and moral codes necessary for survival. And we’re aware of our own propensities to violate many of those codes–or at least I am. As a writer, I try to explore my own questions through my characters. I explore anomalies I see around me. At times, I feel like I catch a glimmer of truth. If I’m lucky, I manage to convey it through words to others.

Most of the time, though, I’m just stumbling along, pretending like I know what I’m doing, and wondering if I’m the only one. It scares me, actually, this state of perpetual surrender to the “big surprise.” But maybe that’s right where I should be.

I wonder: What if there is a link, after all, between fear and faith?