IN DEFENSE OF FEAR Why horror? Isn‘t there already enough fear in the world? Yes there is, and that‘s exactly why horror entertainment is so important. Some people will try focus on ―positive emotions‖ such as love and joy while repressing their fear, anger, jealousy, and other ―negative‖ emotions. I think this is an extremely dangerous thing to do, because pretending they don‘t exist doesn‘t make the other emotions go away. It only inhibits our ability to understand and control them – and when we aren‘t controlling them, they‘re controlling us. Without control, we are easy victims for any politician to use our fears to manipulate our vote. We are helpless to the holy man who uses our fear of the afterlife to control our values. We are even inept to confess to the girl we love, or follow our dreams, or anything else where fear stands as a boundary between us and our goal. There is no such thing as a ―positive‖ or ―negative‖ emotion. Everything we feel contributes to making us human, and all emotions have an equal capacity to improve or destroy our lives and the lives of those around us. How many times has love been our justification for obsession and greed? Hasn‘t the pursuit of joy caused some of us to waste our lives with selfish hedonism? Even empathy for your neighbor has been used as grounds to start wars or ostracize entire races and cultures that seem different from us. So do not judge fear as evil just because it can be used for evil means. It is silly to blame a knife for a murder that its wielder committed. By appreciating the beauty of fear – fear as an art-form – by accepting it is part of the human experience instead of trying to run from it, we‘re able to better equip ourselves to handle the fear in our daily lives. That‘s why I‘ve decided to write horror. My goal is to dig down to all the nameless terrors rooted in your subconscious and rock you to the bottom of your psychology. I‘m going to let all the monsters out from under your bed until you finally get a good look at them and realize that fear can‘t hold you back anymore. That it can even be fun.

Watching my son Andrew kick the winning goal. That‘s my dream. Or catching his eye as he holds the science-fair trophy, head held upright with the pride of our triumph. I still remember how my own father looked the night my high school football team won state. Two of my teammates hoisted me onto their shoulders, and when Dad saw me, it was as though he forgave himself for every mistake he‘s ever made – all because he raised me into the man I had become. I don‘t care what Andrew decides to pursue in life, I just want him to be great at it. Isn‘t that what all father‘s want? He‘s going to be eight next month, and I know the next generation‘s best (his future competition) have already begun to refine their talents. Mozart began playing at 3, Picasso could draw before he could talk, and Michael Jackson was performing live by 6 years old. It‘s taken awhile for Andrew to find his niche, but lately he‘s started getting really into mountain and trick biking. His mother (Amy) thinks it‘s too dangerous, but I know how important it is to be passionate about your skillset, so I encourage him every chance I get. Amy just doesn‘t understand. She would see one little cut or bruise, and then suddenly that‘s all that mattered. I say if you aren‘t willing to bleed a little to achieve your dreams, then you don‘t deserve to have them come true.

That‘s why we started practicing in secret. I‘d tell Amy that we were just going to ride around the block. We‘d both pedal until the house was out of sight, then we‘d blast off toward the hills wearing the same conspiratorial grin. He was good too, fearlessly bouncing down cliffs and rocky slopes that would have even given me pause. Every day he came home a little stronger, and a little more confident than the day before. Every day I knew it was worth all the exhaustion and sneaking around, because he was going to be the best and I was going to be the one who made it happen. That is, until the day when it wasn‘t worth it anymore. We‘d just gotten home from a trick competition at the skate park, although it was hardly fair since Andrew was still 8 and all the other kids were teenagers. Andrew slipped up while trying a nose-wheelie, and was disqualified before even getting to show off what he‘d been practicing. We were both so frustrated, but I was still proud of him for not wasting any time and getting straight back to the hillside to practice. I could tell he wasn‘t being cautious this time. It was my fault for applauding and egging him on to tackle bigger boulders and obstacles. When you‘re disappointed, you can either give up or try harder, and I just didn‘t want my boy to quit. When he asked if I thought he could ramp off a rock to clear the ravine, I told him what I thought he needed to hear. ―You can do anything you put your mind to,‖ I said. We were wrong for believing in each other. I shouted when I saw his back tire slipping right before he made the jump, but it was already too late to do anything about. The bike pitched forward and hurled him straight over the handlebars, twisting the bike around on top of him as he flipped. Long before I heard the grotesque snapping of his impact, I knew he wasn‘t going to walk away from this alright. Maybe if I hadn‘t pushed him so hard. Or so soon. Maybe if I hadn‘t allowed my own guilt and fear to make me hesitate before I plunged into the ravine after him, then maybe I could have saved him. It took a full ten seconds of listening to his agonized groans before I could force myself to gaze down at what used to be my son. He‘d landed directly on his head, but the helmet did nothing to prevent his neck twisting halfway around his body under the power of the impact. He‘d been jarred so hard that part of his spine ruptured straight through his skin to greet the air with a bloody shine. Screw competing. If he even survived a trip to the hospital, then I‘d still spend the rest of my life feeding him with a spoon. But this was my fault and he was my son, so there could never be a choice. I took the first step of the never ending journey down the slope toward him. ―Let‘s go home, Dad.‖ The words should have been enough to bring tears to my eyes, but instead I froze in the grip of absolute terror. It wasn‘t my son who said it – I didn‘t even know if my son could talk anymore. I turned slowly, careful not to lose my grip on the pebbled earth and topple helplessly down the ravine. ―I‘m okay Dad. Let‘s go.‖ Andrew – or at least someone who looked exactly like my son, all the way down to his freckles and the mustard stain on his sleeve – was waiting for me on the top of the hill. Back down the ravine, I still saw the twisted and broken version of the same boy lying there. ―Come on,‖ the unharmed Andrew said. ―Race you back.‖