Making Monsters

A nation that routinely murders its children I doubt will live long.

I like to write horror; nothing sordid. Not exactly suspense thrillers, I’m more trying to capture a mood, an unease; harmless fun, something on the level of the Universal Monsters. I write things that I know I’d enjoy.

The real horror seems to be our nation, our continued perversion of anything pervertible. Our nation, on the other hand, that is, our nation as opposed to our nation, the history, ethics, and laws that we ignore, the inherited house we know we’re not good enough to live in, that nation as opposed to the nation we are, the fiends that make the very monsters I enjoy imagining look like saints—Ichabod.

Ichabod Crane dreams of consuming just about everything, an educated fool who uses what little authority he has, that is an authority over children, with nothing but self-serving partiality. I think he’s a great model of our nation, and his name, so apt.

I’ll keep dreaming of monsters, of headless ghouls, and pray Brom Bones wins. Let the reader understand.