In Strange Company

I am new to writing and so the full spectrum of the creative process eludes me. I am far from strict in my approach. Whatever I may fancy of myself, creativity remains a mystery and a discipline and humility is required to achieve the best result. In this I am deficient. I try to do what I find most rewarding, omitting much and stumbling in to objects of contemplation by habit and the fortune of error.

For me, Horror is an entirely unexplored country. The most unfamiliar of landscapes, formless yet free of the prescriptions of my own obsessive mind. In music, I have mastered improvisation. It is the Piano, I play. And Music helps me find the mood to write. Writing may yet be improvised, learned by practice and insight, and not attained by preparation to excess. Learning is a process fostered by a dripping tap of consciousness: one idea expressed after another.

And so I have begun to find the my "voice" as a writer. Or a Character. I don't know. Perhaps they are the same.

We have become acquainted. The mind is a strange meeting place. Can footsteps echo on an imagined floor? Smartly dressed and designed to impress, with a wave of his hand, he takes a bow. A youthful figure. Graceful in his movements. Cunning in desire. Sadistic in intent.

He seems to come out strongest when I write monologues. Inevitably as a murderer of some description. The thrill and the dread, the lust and the fear, the despair and the rage. All speak with a calm voice as they empty on to the page. A sinister voice mail left by a stranger haunting the inside of my skull.

I can almost hear the chink of glass as he pours himself a glass of wine, and see him slither in to an old brown leather chair facing me. In serene comfort, he takes a sip. Then with a flash of dreadful intent, the bright eyes fix on me, he swallows and smirks knowingly, entertained by my confusion. A grandfather clock strikes somewhere in the corner of my mind.

I have always been, what you would call, a "nice guy". But was that always the whole story? The quiet resentments and frustration of years, hidden behind a studied politeness. I have for some time been aware that I have a "shadow", some facet of my being that has eluded me.

Perhaps it is only natural that I might indulge the company of a character who speaks the language of secrets and lies. My lies are small and many. His lies are big and many more. But are both in some way a debt to the soul? Do we deny ourselves by hiding who we are? Is my life as much a performance as his?

Who are you? I wonder to myself. Are you a self-portrait? A confession I've tried to forget? A regret taking its revenge? And why do I resist? What does this fiction know about myself that I do not?

I enjoy his company. That's the part that requires an alarming honesty. I do enjoy a good villain. A criminal? A murderer? A person free of the inhibitions with which I betray myself?

If writing is to be a long journey, this is a strange and unexpected companion to do it with. I chose horror for a reason. But I never expected it to make me my own therapist.

And so the murderer summons my attention from the sofa:

"Shall we begin? I'm waiting. I have people to kill. And you're going to write them for me."