Nightmare Magazine Issue 25, Women Destroy Horror! Special Issue

by Nightmare Magazine

  In horror we have to stop dismissing the related genres. We give fiction with egregious levels of misogyny and otherwise comparable writing style a free pass but react to Twilight with total disdain. That’s a symptom of a genre that isn’t as inclusive as it needs to be. As a publisher at Omnium Gatherum, I’ve been guilty of it myself. It’s great that horror accepts women who don’t much offend the male-oriented horror sensibility. It might be time to reach out to some who do. I’ve read enough sub-standard stories involving rape and dismemberment. It wouldn’t kill me to wade through a few sex scenes with supernatural beasts to see if I can locate a gem.

  Helen: I’m currently working on a YA novel called Icarus Kids, but that wasn’t a pressured decision. I started reading some very good books by Patrick Ness, A. S. King, and Blythe Woolston, which got me interested in the genre. I do feel like there is a negative perception of young adult literature as somehow inferior and not worthy of serious consideration, and I’ve encountered resistance to my decision to write it. But, let’s face it, I’ve encountered some sort of resistance to what I want to write at every stage. People have tried to steer me in all sorts of directions: literary writing, commercial writing, academic writing, poetry, short fiction, long-form, epic fantasy, historical fantasy, historical writing about women in pretty dresses (yes, this is true!) . . . whatever. Every writer has someone telling them they should be doing something differently at pretty much every stage of their career. It doesn’t stop. Everyone has an opinion, and I hear them all, and they stick with me. Those voices are pernicious. But they’re also like weather: you learn how to navigate as best you can. I write what I write because it’s the best form I’ve found right now for the things I want to say. That will change. Then I’ll go write something else.

  Rena: The first story I ever wrote was a YA/urban fantasy/paranormal romance but also a horror story. Everything I write has a horror element to it, and I’ve never tried to edit it out. It’s who I am as a writer. I’ve written science fiction and YA short stories, but they’re also undoubtedly horror stories. My “romance” stories can’t really be labeled as romance since I tend to kill everybody at the end. But no one has ever tried to steer me into writing it.

  Is it a goal for you to be published by the majors?

  Linda: Absolutely. I’ve been in anthologies from major publishers (Dark Matter 1 from Warner Books, Dark Thirst from Pocket Books) and the pay was higher; there was an increase of exposure and attention from reviewers.

  Kate: Yes, definitely. I feel lucky to be published by small presses first. It’s an opportunity to create a fan base and a network. Seems like authors don’t get a lot of chances once they’ve gotten a book deal. The first book has to be a success or there won’t be a second. Having the freedom to publish while still growing a readership is a huge advantage. Thank you, independent publishers!

  Helen: I’m just getting started, and so I have all sorts of big dreams!

  Rena: I think it would be great. Yes.

  Are you comfortable with being labeled a female horror (or dark fiction) writer?

  Linda: I have no problem with labels as long as folks buy my work. Before I was published in Sheree Thomas’ Dark Matter anthology in 2000, most people didn’t know I was an African-American author unless they met me at a convention. I’m very happy to be a female author with any added label.

  Kate: The horror label has some torture porn/cheesy, cheap slasher movie tarnish on it. It’s a fine word to use with horror authors who know how diverse and interesting horror fiction actually is. Communicating with readers is harder. We still have lots of work to do to get the word out.

  Helen: Labels are tricky things. When my first collection of fiction, Hair Side, Flesh Side, came out in 2012, I genuinely didn’t know how to label it. Was it fantasy? Dark fantasy? Horror? Literary fiction? But my writing was most strongly embraced by the horror community, and I’m the anti-Groucho Marx—I want to be in the club that wants to have me. Because I think it says something about the horror writing community right now that there is a strong desire to find new writers from different areas. I’ve received a tremendous amount of support from editors such as Paula Guran, Ellen Datlow, Stephen Jones, Brett Savory, Sandra Kasturi, Mike Kelly, and Jonathan Oliver. These are editors who make decisions that will shape the genre for years to come. My point is: I’m an odd writer who wouldn’t have necessarily found my way to the genre on my own, but they found me and they encouraged me to stay a while. So if there’s room for a writer like me in the horror genre—and I think there is!—then yes, yes, yes I want in.

  Rena: Yes.

  And coming back to this issue’s special theme . . . what will you do to destroy horror?

  Linda: Continue writing whatever stories/poems come to me, and ignore whether the world considers them appropriate for a woman to write.

  Kate: I’m going to seek out lots of women who love to read horror. I’m going to reach out to people who don’t know they love the genre yet. I also want to encourage more women to edit anthologies, start publishing companies, and submit to publishers big and small. Some say horror is a boys’ club, but my experience is that publishers are actively trying to publish women.

  Knock. You will be invited in.

  Helen: The only thing we can do as writers—I’m going to keep writing it, that’s for damn sure, and when people tell me that horror writing isn’t worth pursuing then I’ll give them all the reasons why it is. Horror is going through some growing pains. It’s a genre with stretch marks.

  But I want to add one more thing to this: when I was the Managing Editor for ChiZine Publications, we had an explicit goal to seek out more female horror writers. We had a slush pile that looked the same as most of the horror writing slush piles do, and it was mostly men submitting. But I read an excellent article today by John O’Neill in response to the review of Women Destroy Science Fiction in Tangent Online. John finally nailed for me the basic problem of why there aren’t more women writing horror right now. Slush piles, for the most part, represent where the genre is, or, better yet, where it has been for the last ten years. As editors, it shouldn’t be the goal to simply select the best material out of a poor slush pile, it should be to change the nature of the slush pile by encouraging new authors, soliciting material from up-and-coming writers, and putting together themed anthologies like this one. An editor’s job is to look forward and decide what he or she wants to put out there—then to find it.

  I want to be part of that. I don’t think it means abandoning what has come before. It means taking a long hard look at where we are right now and deciding where we want to go next.

  Rena: I don’t want to destroy horror. I want to multiply it by infinity and beyond!

  © 2014 by Lisa Morton.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lisa Morton is a screenwriter, author of nonfiction books, award-winning prose writer, and Halloween expert whose work was described by the American Library Association’s Readers’ Advisory Guide to Horror as “consistently dark, unsettling, and frightening.” Her short fiction has appeared in dozens of anthologies and magazines, including The Mammoth Book of Dracula, Dark Delicacies, The Museum of Horrors, and Cemetery Dance, and in 2010 her first novel, The Castle of Los Angeles, received the Bram Stoker Award for First Novel. Recent books include the graphic novel Witch Hunts: A Graphic History of the Burning Times (co-written with Rocky Wood, illustrated by Greg Chapman), and Trick or Treat: A History of Halloween. Also recent are the novellas Summer’s End and Smog, and the novel Malediction. A lifelong Californian, she lives in North Hollywood and can be found online at lisamorton.com.

  The H Word:

  The H is for Harassment (a/k/a Horror’s Misogyny Problem)

  Chesya Burke

  It’s well known within the field that horror, in both movies and novels, has a long history of often (perhaps too often, some would argue) being misogynist, relying on extreme rape as a plot device. Although the victims sometimes seek revenge in a one-dimen
sional pursuit, more frequently it’s used to prove the masculinity of the male protagonist or to offer him a revenge motive. Other times it is simply used for shock value. The women within these stories are often graphically raped (because what is the purpose of raping someone if we, the audience, cannot experience it in great detail?) and murdered. It just so happens, by complete original happenstance, my fellow female horror writer observed, “. . . that if a woman needs to be traumatized lazy writers will use rape. Not as a deeply emotional growth experience, but as a way to make the hero angry, or put the woman in her place, or to make the evil person truly appear evil. The aftermath is hardly ever dealt with.” It is the case that women within these stories often do not exist as functioning, autonomous human beings, but mere placeholders for males who must swoop in to not actually protect them, because after all, they have already been abused and often died horrifically for all of our entertainment, but to allow them to take their rightful places as heroes.

  Does this mean that rape should never be explored within works of fiction? Of course not; I don’t know anyone that would argue that. But in real life, rape is never justified and the victims have to live with the very real consequences of that experience. And although spouses, friends, and family members are often affected by it, we should never lose sight of where the true horror lies. (Although this is not always the case in real life, either.) Women who are raped are fully actualized human beings with dreams and aspirations and nightmares, both before and after being assaulted. Why, then, is rape so often simply a plot point, and the women who experience it so often cease to exist or are no longer important, whether physically or mentally within these stories? Why is the journey so rarely the victim’s?

  Obvious examples most will recognize are The Hills Have Eyes, Evil Dead, and Last House on the Left, all of which are considered classics in the field and all have been remade within the last few years. Being an academic, this is where I would normally offer a content analysis of each movie, but considering my audience (and you all love nothing if not to be entertained) and space limitations, I don’t have the time, and, really, do we have to do that? If you haven’t come across these stories, or if you are a writer and you haven’t written them, then count yourself truly lucky.

  Otherwise, let’s acknowledge that this plot device has been overused and accept it. Because although many people agree that this is the case, many won’t accept that viewing women as mere objects possibly fosters an environment of hostility and harassment for women within the field. Assuming, though, that rape is the ultimate form of unwanted attention and assuming there is a continuum, and rape is at the far end, we should ask ourselves where it begins. Harassment is not rape, but we nurture an environment within the genre where the latter is fantasy and thus the former becomes acceptable.

  Harassment within the genre is a real problem, but although it’s often overlooked, and even outright ignored by some, women work to combat it. We whisper about those who have groped or made obscene comments; we warn each other of the men we should never ever be alone with. We sometimes comfort each other and chastise ourselves and get angry and get tired and . . .

  Mostly don’t speak out.

  Because it could affect our careers. It could make us look whiny or weak. And really, it isn’t that big of a secret now is it?

  You all know because you’ve probably seen it. I know because I’ve seen you see it. Often. You didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. The victim didn’t say anything . . . to you. Ergo, it’s not a big deal, it’s trivial.

  Or is it?

  I’m going to tell you a story. It has nothing to do with rape. It has everything to do with harassment and silence. I could talk about having been followed around a convention, or being called a cunt, or that time the guy called me Aunt Jemima (look, racism and sexism!) to put me in my place in front of a group of white, male writers, or any host of things I’ve witnessed, but I’m going to tell you a story about a woman that I don’t know. I don’t know her name, and quite honestly, I don’t even remember her face. Instead, I remember what happened to her and my response.

  This was at the beginning of my career and I was new to conventions. It was late one night, and several of us, including her, were in the lobby chilling out, as we are wont to do. This man walked up, and I was excited, swooning, because I knew him. Or at least, knew of him. Everyone at that convention knew him. He’s as close to famous as you can get without being Stephen King in the field. Anyway, we were all talking and chatting, and then the Famous Writer Guy bent over and stared directly into this woman’s face. Just hovering there, ignoring the rest of us, blocking her from us. The woman looked around Famous Writer Guy to continue the conversation. Then he started touching her, lightly rubbing his finger up and down her arm, and then poked her, hard. She held up her arm to block him and stepped away, doing her best to ignore him. Famous Writer Guy moved closer to her and began rubbing her again. She looked to me and to the group. She’s thinking what I’m thinking, “This is Famous Writer Guy, what can I say? If I scream at him to cut it out, I’ll look angry and as if I’m blowing it out of proportion. If I smile or talk to him, he’ll think I’m interested in him. I’m scared.”

  But none of us said a word. Nothing to help her out. This was her problem. One that I was damn glad that I didn’t have, so that I could ignore the hell out of it.

  After a moment, she gave this meandering excuse about needing to get up early and left. Famous Writer Guy wandered off shortly after. Finally, I leaned in and whispered to the guy beside me, “That was uncomfortable. I hate seeing it because I’ll never be able to see him the same way.”

  The guy’s response: “He was drunk. He’ll be better in the morning.”

  Famous Writer Guy would be better in the morning. He would feel better, so obviously everything would be better. No Name Girl didn’t matter. She was simply a character in Famous Writer Guy’s story, a throwaway stand-in that could perhaps help him become a better person. That was all.

  I do not argue that unwanted harassment is rape, but rape is undoubtedly the ultimate form of unwanted harassment. It is quite possible that horror’s heavy reliance on rape helps to normalize the objectification of women within the genre. It’s also possible that this leads to tolerance and even makes us all culpable in this harassment through our silence and our muted acceptance.

  Now this story, like the cliché of rape in horror, does not represent the entire genre. I would even guess that things have gotten better and people are more likely to speak out now, if for no other reason than times have changed and feminist ideology is becoming more understood. But the genre is still difficult for women, as there are still secrets and whispers and, yes, people are still silent.

  Likewise, I would argue that too often the nature of horror has fostered this idea of male superiority, identity, and prowess. While none of these things are inherently wrong or bad, they have too often given rise to the subjugation of women. And although this essay could represent many genres to varying levels, I have a vested interest in horror and I chose to write about it here now.

  I am not here to tell my fellow writers to stop writing about rape. I do not even want to tell someone not to hit on a woman at a convention. But I would implore you to consider the ways in which you explore and exploit and think about rape and how this possibly affects your interaction with the women who share pages and spaces around you. We are all writers and we simply want to tell the best stories while being stimulating and engaging for our readers.

  With that, I hope I have done that for you here.

  © 2014 by Chesya Burke.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chesya Burke’s 2011 fiction collection, Let’s Play White, was featured in i09 and received praise from Samuel Delany and Nikki Giovanni. She is also recognized for her critical analysis of genre and race issues such as her articles “Race and The Walking Dead” and “Super Duper Sexual Spiritual Black Woman: The New and Improved Magical Negro,” publishe
d by Clarkesworld. Chesya is currently getting her MA in African American Studies at Georgia State University and is a juror for the 2013 Shirley Jackson awards.

  Women’s Short Horror Fiction: An Historical Overview

  Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  My interest in fantastic literature, and especially the short story, began in childhood and is unabating after more than thirty years. Although my interest does not focus exclusively on authors with feminist concerns, the ghostly writings of women have become of particular interest to me, whether in English or in translation from various languages. Several years ago I began collecting first editions of short story collections (for women’s work, these are all too often the only editions and far too rare), and I soon discovered that the finest supernatural tales are absent from modern retrospectives. I also collect British and especially North American Victorian magazines (a dusty hobby, to be sure) and found as much as seventy percent of the supernatural fiction therein was the work of women, the majority of it never reprinted in any form and only haphazardly preserved.

  From the 1830s through the 1920s, women were the dominant presence in British and American magazines as poets, essayists, story writers, readers, and often enough as editors; hence, women dominated the fashions in literature. The closed community of the magazine trade meant that these women knew one another’s writing, supported one another’s careers, and were not individually “reinventing in the dark.” A sizable percentage were consciously feminist, and, depending on the degree of radicalism decade by decade, at certain historical moments feminists were the majority. Their supernatural stories amounted to a veritable school, yet almost no one in this century has commented on it. “The Yellow Wallpaper” (1892) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman has been treated as an exception, as nearly the only feminist shocker in a genre assumed by many to be inherently conservative. Few realized that Gilman’s classic was only the best known in an enormous body of similar fiction.