Why I Write

Why do I write? There weren’t enough stories on page and screen that I liked, so I wrote my own. The first time I saw Bride of Chucky I was appalled because they ruined that character. It went against everything that series had been for years prior to 1998. None of the three previous films had any sex scenes. This one did. The other three made me give a shit about the protagonists. I did not give two hits about Jade and Jesse. Chucky was made to look like a goof instead of the foul mouthed and psychotic killer we all knew and loved. The point of this article was to answer the question: why do I write? I write the stories I want to see more of and written the way I want to see stories written.

The Conjuring One and Two spoiled me. The Conjuring went back to the original Child’s Play philosophy. Let’s make the move scary and give it heart; what a fucking concept. These movies were so awesome that I was nervous about watching Halloween 2018. The reason being Halloween was written like such an exploitation film that it was a bit annoying. Judith was the tramp character in the original film. Lynda flashes the camera and Annie was the smart ass.

Dave and Vicky annoyed the shit out of me in the 2018 film. They were smart assed, worthless, and half retarded, pothead, dipshits. The way Vicky whimpered and begged:

“No, no, no,” as Michael stabbed the shit out of her. It turned an annoying character into a human one and I felt like protecting the character for the first time in the film. Dave made me feel sympathy for him after seeing him impaled through the neck. It was so brutal I saw him more as a human at that point. He did try to save Vicky but he was such a doofus before that, so I had written his character off. The movie had heart and scares and felt like a Halloween film. It was the perfect Halloween sequel.

I used to fantasize that I would make a career out of playing Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees in future movies. These slasher movies seemed deceptively simple. A single killer picking off teens one at a time. My slasher films, the ones I wrote ran the gamut. Some were bloodier and some were tamer. The boyfriends tended to be better in my films. They treated their girlfriends better than in a lot of slasher films.

Moving away from slasher films, I liked to also write stories where I can reimagine small aspects of my life. In a Thanksgiving story I write from the perspective of a Lyons fan cheering despite losing to the Packers every year. The Lyons have become better in recent years, but you get the idea. I can relate to how they feel. My team has lost a lot lately. But when you are a true fan, you just don’t give up.

Validation was another reason I wrote. Imagine growing up in a house where your dad getting off work would make you change the channel. For example, if I was watching The Fresh Prince of Belair or Sister, Sister; I would have to change the channel because I didn’t want to hear Dad’s mouth.

“Why are you watching that black show?” he never said that but I knew there was a chance that he could. Now I had to be between nine and eleven at the time. It was annoying to say the least.

Imagine being sixteen years old and watching Halloween Four. My dad pops out of his room to go down the hall for presumably a snack or something. He proceeded to criticize my choice of movie for the evening. He hurled expletives at me.

“Jesus Christ it’s Christmas. Give the spooky shit a rest; will you?” Then he walked on down the hall. He had ninjaed my brain and criticized me as he always did because he was and still is a narcissist.

My dad has known tragedy early in his life. His dad walked out on his mom when he was seven years old and his mom passed away at fifty from cancer. So, he thought that gave him a pass to treat everyone else around him like shit. He also resented his stepdad for laughing at him for writing a story. My dad was fourteen and had written a story for his stepfather’s birthday.

“Why would you want to be a writer?” Fred, my dad’s stepfather said.

“Hurt people, hurt people, hurt people,” Bill Cosby said. Invalidating behavior became operational for him. My dad became invalidating to his wife, me, my brother, his cousin, and his mother-in-law. He became a cancer. Third or fourth grade I remember once wishing my dad would go away.

He was and still is quite toxic. Even today, I write because I say:

“Fuck you,” if you think I’m going to let you tell me what to write, or watch, or read, or think!

I write to expose hypocrisy. You don’t get to make a lifetime of invalidating people’s feelings and then think you are going to be able to hide your cruelty and deviance. Fuck that; I will expose you! I will write, read, and watch what the fuck I want to. You don’t like my writing you don’t have to read it. But if you want to then go ahead. The world was always easier to understand once I had written a story. Writing helped me to understand character motivation. It helped me to understand characters even when they seemed different than me on the surface. I like adding fantastical elements to my stories because the world could use a bit of magic. Stories were usually more fun with ghosts, and elves, and leprechauns, and Santa Claus, and monsters than without them.

The reasons I write are numerous. They help give me catharsis, an outlet, hope, inner peace, and validation! I matter! What I like matters because it matters. I seem to have found my audience, they seem to like my stuff too, and that makes me smile.