April: Why I Write Horror (and Why It Keeps Me Up at Night)

People always ask me why I write horror.

I think they expect some edgy answer—blood, guts, demons in the walls. But the truth is a little softer than that.

I write horror because it’s always been there. When I was a kid, Syfy Saturday movie marathons were sacred in my house. We'd gather around the couch with greasy pizza and extra-buttered popcorn, blanket pulled up to our chins and soda cans sweating on the coffee table. The movies were bad—laughably bad sometimes. Giant bugs. Ghost sharks. Ghouls made out of questionable foam latex. But we loved them.

They were a tradition. A comfort. Horror, for me, is stitched into the fabric of family and safety and togetherness. It’s the sound of a too-loud jump scare and my mom laughing because I screamed and dropped my slice of pizza.

And yeah—I’m a massive scaredy-cat. Loud noises? Jump. The dark? Nope. Open closet door at night? Immediately cursed.

I’ve always had terrible anxiety. The kind that makes you sit up at 3 a.m. because the silence feels too loud and your brain wants to play the greatest hits of “What If This Time It’s Real.” And the older I get, the louder that voice gets. Weird, right?

But horror, the kind I write, the kind I love—it gives me the illusion of control. I get to choose the fear. Shape it. Name it. Trap it in 30,000 words and slam the door behind it. I get to make the monsters predictable. I get to survive.

And beyond the screams and shadows, horror is just… human. It’s about the things we’re willing to do to protect the people we love. It’s about how fear can reveal the best or worst parts of us. It’s about what’s left after the lights come back on.

So yeah, I write horror.

But it still keeps me up at night.

Why do you write horror?