The Footprint of Fear
Writing Paranormal and Horror Fiction
The world is full of mysteries. Some explainable, some arcane. If you are anything like me, it's the unknown that captures your imagination. Creepy folk tales. Obscure factions in society. Any manner of monster.
Fear calls to our primeval instincts of fight or flight, creating a heightened euphoria once the sweat dries and our heartbeats slow back to normal.
I grew up watching every monster show and reading anything paranormal that landed in my grubby hands. And as I expanded into the realm of writing, the hobgoblins and the undead followed.
The very idea of describing the itchy crust of soured flesh or the dying light of a sunset shoots a zesty thrill up my spine. If I'm successful, as a writer, I will pass along that thrill to my readers. And if I'm really lucky, it will leave an invisible scar on their psyches. Because the most basic components of fear are the elements of normalcy and connection.
One mundane strand can ground the bizarre or grotesque, offering it legitimacy in the minds of readers.
For example, some of the undead in my novels are bogged down in repetitive, everyday actions leftover from their human years. Alice, from my Sinners and Saints series, always takes refuge in the bathroom. Rather than face the reality that she is evolving into a creature of the night, she locks the world away and obsessively counts ingredients on the backs of shampoo and lotion containers. Framing her anxiety in such a way affixes that mundane strand which grounds the supernatural to reality.
I also often use an event or emotion to connect with my readers. Maybe none of us have ever actually lost a soul or met a vampire, such as my character, Ell, from my Ell Clyne series. But we've definitely experienced soul-crushing moments, where we wished we could sink into a hole somewhere out of sight for, like, EVER. I pull from these supercharged life experiences to create a sound fictional foundation for a character or story line.
The suspension of disbelief—the willing disregard of logic—is a fragile thing. The more validity you can give, the easier it becomes to suspend doubt.
The truth is, fear is fickle. And very subjective.
What you might fear, someone else willingly embraces. That's the best attribute of fear; no one can pinpoint exactly what will set someone else off. Of course, there are a wide range of phobias: clowns, arachnids, small spaces, and dolls, for example.
Wide-reaching phobias are a great way to connect with readers.
As are collective emotions, such as guilt, anger, and the existential dread of failure. Tap into what scares you—such as the death of someone dear, losing control, being responsible for a major disaster, etc...—if you wish to connect on that archaic humanoid level with your readers.
Writing within the paranormal and horror genres is about more than conjuring monsters. More than ghastly descriptions. The best way to harness fear is by building a bridge between the familiar and the strange. By connecting the dots from one's heart to their last nerve, severing every ounce of comfort along the way.
As a writer, I enjoy crafting people and places that resonate in the quiet moments when we're alone with our thoughts, wondering if that shadow in the corner has always been there, or if the sound in the next room is really the cat.
If I can incite a nervous giggle while simultaneously planting a nightmare, I've done my job.
Every writer has a distinct footprint.
When, where, and how we stoke our readers' fear is as varied as our lives, because, if well formed, our fears become their fears. And the inevitable rush when it subsides becomes their salvation.
(I am not a writing coach. I simply love writing about the paranormal, and wish to help burgeoning writers discover their voices. Happy crafting!)