The two hardest things to write are comedy and terror. Some, perhaps many, people assume the Hard Crown goes to tragedy, what with the need to twangle the old heartstrings lest the whole thing slides into bathos and we all get deeply embarrassed. But, my dears, I have read some of the most unmitigated tosh, poorly plotted, unattractively characterised, that still made me tear up and sniff like a hayfever victim. The human heart is susceptible to twangling, and even a most sorrily written heroine can move me to pity. We can all identify with grief, and loss, and loneliness.
Comedy, on the other hand, is a bitch. And a mystery. You’ve all no doubt had the pretty mitigated pleasure of watching a serious actor try his or her hand at sitcom. Painful, yes, all that mugging and carrying on and taking it all rather too seriously? Well, quite. Ditto for writing. In spades. Or possibly truckloads.
And then there’s terror.
Did I mention that I’m currently writing a ghost story? Yes? Good. I have just finished the first draft. It consists of an extremely rough gallop through the plot, almost completely devoid of characterisation or atmosphere. The pacing is all over the place, the dialogue clunky, the typos innumerable, and the Editor hates it. And it’s about as scary as a toddler in a pumpkin outfit. And I am looking at how much work it’s all going to take and feeling rather annoyed with myself for even starting on what surely will be the road to Ballsup. For what scares the bejaysus out of me, will make you laugh. My fascinating CSI episode is someone else’s barfathon, and when I am hiding in the bathroom until the ad-break, someone else is eating crisps in a less-than-agitated manner. And I am so used to, and sick of, frankly, this story at the moment that I couldn’t spot a chilling resolution if it took to lurking on the bedside table.
And then there’s my loathing of Horror as a genre. Yes, it gives one pause for thought, doesn’t it? I love ghost stories. But I can’t stand horror stories. It’s the difference between the cold shivering fear of the nameless, formless, numinous presence of the Other, and gagging. Even the great master of the gut-wrench himself knows what I mean:
The closest I want to come to definition or rationalization is to suggest that the genre exists on three more or less separate levels, each one a little less fine than the one before it….
So: terror on top, horror below it, and lowest of all, the gag reflex of revulsion… I recognize terror as the finest emotion… and so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I find I cannot terrify him/her, I will try to horrify; and if I find I cannot horrify, I’ll go for the gross-out. I’m not proud. Stephen King’s Danse Macabre, pages 36-40.
Like he says, he’s not proud. And I for one will never forgive him for the eyeball and paper-clip thing in The Dark Half
I nearly bricked myself many years ago reading Stephen Laws’ Spectre. There had been a psychotic attack from a ventriloquist’s dummy and the main characters were back in the flat on their sofa aftermathing, talking some important flashback-plot stuff, when said dummy suddenly joined in the conversation from behind the sofa.
I suppose the combination of some classic techniques really got me:
Warped-but-recognisable-reflection-of-humanity
(see also Lovecraft’s Outsider, Dr Frankenstein’s GCSE biology project)
Invasion-of-”safe”-domestic-space
(see also Psycho shower scene, Met police in Aldgate)
Messing-with-established-”violence/plot/violence”-structure
(ok, this is as old as the hills, no James Bond informant gets to finish their crucial sentence before the poisoned dart hits them, do they? Can be done well though.)
It was also lucky that I was reading late, alone in the house, on the sofa. Probably wouldn’t have worked if I was half-asleep in a floodlit Heathrow departure lounge.
Left by Ed on July 13th, 2006
Two of E.F. Benson’s
stories , ‘Negotium Perambulans’ and ‘No Bird Sings’, feature a demonic giant slug. Oh ha ha indeed. Slugs. How silly. Nevertheless ‘No Bird Sings’ made me feel quite sick with terror on first reading. And as far as I can remember, all the slug did in that was allow its shadow to be seen. Well, it may have done more and I am refusing to remember. I couldn’t bring myself to read ‘Negotium Perambulans’ after that.
It helps immensely that I have always been utterly repelled by slugs. Someone else may well find both stories no more than a little creepy, if not downright daft.
I’d rather share the third or fourth draft, if you don’t mind. I am as yet far too raw and self-conscious to let people see pages and pages of such stuff as: ‘Then he goes up-stairs. Insert business with cat-flap.’
Left by Reed on July 13th, 2006
Comedy and terror are such nebulous things, and I can confirm first-hand that comedy is blooming difficult as an actor. I tend to take the view that terror largely comes from atmosphere, and comedy largely comes from character (situation is also important, of course!). So when I have to perform comedy, I try to forget that it’s comedy, and just let the character carry on his merry way, unaware of how ridiculous he is. Is it the same with writing? I have no idea, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten us.
Left by David B on July 14th, 2006
[…] One major feature of my list, it would seem, is an almost total lack of gore, guts, maggots and dismemberment. Certainly, these things are implied in one or two places, and the first Lovecraft entry is decidedly ooky, but by and large I have always found innards less than enthralling. If I am feeling sick, I am rather too preoccupied to feel thrilled. But I seem to remember having posted about this before, many moons ago. […]
Left by Out of ideas » Blog Archive » Ten reasons to put rum in your cocoa on October 31st, 2007