Facing My Own Demons Through Writing

Why did I take on such dark themes when I wrote my novel, The Summoning? This is a question that has been asked of me by readers, and well ... I've  even asked myself this question a time or two. Many who know me are surprised by my exploration into such a thing as the demonic. To be perfectly honest, when I began writing the book I hadn't intended to go in that direction, and was a bit surprised myself.

In the beginning, my intention was to just write an old-fashioned, creepy ghost story. But, as a discovery writer--someone who basically makes up the story as they go--I soon found myself exploring much darker themes and subject matter than I had originally intended to. I ended up writing scenes that, quite honestly, were disquieting even to myself, and several times I wondered why I felt the compulsion to go in that particular direction.

After mulling this over and allowing the question to percolate in the back of my mind for a while, I think I can finally answer this question. But to answer it sufficiently, I think I need to relate a little story. A true story from my own childhood.

When I was about ten, maybe eleven years old, my friend, Danny, invited me over to spend the night at his house. He had just purchased a new pup tent and wanted to give it a try. We pitched the tiny, triangular, nylon shelter in his backyard, and unrolled our sleeping bags. Under a velvet summer sky, bejeweled by a billion gleaming stars, we settled into our bags. And with the chirruping of nearby crickets providing the perfect soundtrack, we began one of the most ancient rituals since the beginning of boydom: telling ghost stories.

Now keep in mind, we were only ten years old. At the time, the scariest story in my entire repertoire was the one where the boyfriend goes to let his girl out of the car after their date, and finds a bloody hook hanging on the door handle. Well, after a little bit of this, Danny's mom came out to check on us one last time, before turning in for the night herself. She asked us what we were doing, and when we told her, her eyes grew large and she said, "Do you guys want to hear a true scary story that happened to my grandpa?"

"Well, yeah!"

This grown, adult woman, mother of little children, then proceeded to fill our innocent minds with a tale of evil spirits manifesting themselves and demonic entities paying a horrifying visit to her grandfather as he slept in his bed one night. I'm talking real Exorcist stuff here! When she was finished with her terrifying tale, she abruptly wished us a good night and left. At the time, my little, ten-year-old brain had no comprehension of demons or evil spirits. To me, the devil was this insubstantial, cartoonish guy with a pitch fork and a goatee that whispered in your ear, and tried to make you sneak a cookie out of your mom's cookie jar.

I remember laying there in the dark, absolutely horrified by what I had just been told. In fact, I fully expected a pale, leering face to materialize in the empty space above me at any second. After that, the unnerving concept of receiving an unwanted visitation from demons or evil spirits stuck with me ... for years. I dreaded nights and bedtime. Almost every night, I went to my bedroom like a condemned man to the gas chamber, certain in the knowledge that THIS would be it. This would be the night they would come.

One night, the terror was enough that I felt compelled to go to my father--as ashamed as I was--and tell him about this consuming fear. I told him that I was afraid that evil spirits were going to visit me. I'll never forget my dad's reply as he sat in his green and gold plaid chair, most likely missing the ten o' clock local news broadcast.

I shared with him how the fear of evil spirits appearing to me was dominating my thoughts lately. "I just can't stop thinking about evils spirits coming to me," I said.

He looked at me and said, "Well, if you keep thinking about it so much, they probably will."

I'll never forget how those words thundered into my soul like the very clap of doom. My legs barely had the strength to carry me up the stairs to my room, where Satan, himself, surely sat waiting for my arrival.

Fortunately, Satan or his denizens never manifested themselves to me, and as time wore on, my fears abated. But my belief in the existence of these beings never faded. Having a strong religious upbringing, the reality of the dark side was an ever present reality to me.

My guess is, that this period of time in my childhood left a deeper scar than I realized--those things still frighten me. I think that as I set out to write something scary, my subconscious dredged up out of my psyche the need to face my old fear. I think that through writing about these things I was, in a sort of cathartic way, confronting the past. Perhaps, as the protagonists in my novel battled the forces of evil, in some way, so was I.

I offer this up as an explanation for understanding, not as an excuse or an apology. I'm proud of The Summoning and how it turned out. I know there will be people who read it that will be disturbed by some of the subject matter--it's a horror novel, it's meant to be disturbing. But it's also not just a horror story. It's a romance too. It's about the power of love, friendship, and loyalty in the face of evil. I'm confident that people who read the novel will come away from the experience satisfied.

And yeah ... maybe a little disturbed too.