For as long as I can remember I’ve always had a fascination with horror. Perhaps it began with a particularly jarring moment when I was five years old, when my mother, searching for something to watch, settled upon a made-for-TV movie that happened to be airing on the Lifetime network. I despised Lifetime. Hell, I still can’t stand it. But this one movie seemed so unlike all of the other poorly acted domestic abuse melodramas I’d suffered through in the past.
There was a little boy racing along the sidewalk, chasing after a paper mâché boat in the rain. The boat would later get caught in a sewer grate, and swiftly fall into the underbelly of a small town called Derry. When the boy, no older than myself at the time, started to scan the drain—a clown popped up, holding the poorly crafted boat and smiling. What would go on to happen to the little boy no more than two minutes after the clown’s initial appearance would horrify me throughout the rest of my childhood—and I loved every minute of it.
When I got a little older, I ventured into the literary ‘horror’ genre and quickly became enamored. Fast forward a decade and some odd years later, and I’m now the author of a horror novel myself.