When I was about 4 years old Momma took us to the movies. This particular time etched itself into my child-mind like no other movie had and left me with an aversion to all horror films. Ever heard of it? Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
This was the 1978 remake version, so you can imagine the bad male-perms and feathered lady hair. Looking back at the production pictures now, I laugh at how tacky it looked.
To be truthful, I didn’t actually watch a whole lot of it. I kept needing to go to the “bathroom”. But I clearly remember how afraid I was and how even in the comfort of the orange-tiled movie bathroom I couldn’t stop shaking.
This fear carried me through my childhood. At some point there was a movie my dad watched on TV, no idea what it was, that had monsters pulling women through heater and sewer grates. To this day, I will not walk over a large sewer grate. My husband finds it odd that I will not watch any of the Texas Chainsaw Massacres or Friday the 13ths. I just can’t bring myself to do it.
When I was a teen, I made the sad, sad mistake of watching Nightmare on Elm Street due to peer pressure. Yes, I know they are corny, but I had nightmares for weeks about razor hands slashing through my stomach. Even now as an adult, I absolutely refuse to watch any of the newer stuff like Paranormal Activity or The Grudge.
But the movie I was suckered into watching that scared me the most is a classic that all writers must see, and it teaches us to never get too into seclusion. Maybe it is the reason the writing industry has come out of the attic?
Now I will have nightmares, but at least you all know what a big chicken I am.
Peace, love and God’s will.