I love the creeps, gore and the all-around horror in books. I watch American Horror Story religiously, I live by the code of The Slayers that Joss Whedon laid out for us in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I research serial killers and studies of their psychological states and look forward to the month of October all year round. So as someone who would rather watch a scary movie or go through a museum filled to the tip of mass murder and corruption than go on some overly-dramatic, romantic date filled with dozens of roses and walks in the park, why doesn’t Lovecraft and King’s story telling agree with me?
Don’t get me wrong, I love the theatrical adaptions of King so I am assuming that I would love them of H.P. Lovecraft as well, no matter how ironic his last name is. But I can’t seem to stop getting distracted while reading books written by the two dominate horror-writers. Whether it be a pretty butterfly fluttering a foot away or my mind wondering to the never-ending list of books I want and need to read.
I just don’t feel like a story actually happened. I feel like an old man sat down and told me this horrible thing that he saw once or read about in a documentation his uncle left him, but not the how, the when, the where or the why. Just the what.
I feel like a tentacle face is only scary with the story surrounding him. Without that, I am just imagining Davy Jones and Captain Jack Sparrow and then I crave a marathon of Pirates of the Caribbean.