Women in Horror: Part Fifteen
Here we are again, still celebrating Women in Horror Month & going strong!
Chantal Noordeloos, author of Deeply Twisted & Coyote-The Outlander, is here to talk about stereotypes & categorisation…
Every February we explore the world of ladies in the horror genre. We shine the limelight on female authors, directors, actresses, and perhaps even the female characters in their books.
As a woman who writes horror I’m very grateful for this little bit of illumination. Most of us still struggle to make a name for ourselves, and a lot of women suffer from a stigma that’s been placed on female writers that paints them as less skilled and more difficult to sell in the horror genre than their male counterparts. Instead of being accepted as writers of horror, we are usually expected to produce a slightly scary, but feel-good story with overt elements of bad hair days, what color nail polish our character wears, and PMS. After all, women only know about how to attract a man, not about going to the beach for a relaxing day and ending up possessed by an ancient, evil spirit. [Reference the story in Deeply Twisted]
We’re often seen as ‘romance’ writers, and though I respect my romantic sisters, it’s not a label that fits my work. If a reader sought out my work to find romance, I would probably end up with his or her the therapy bill.
So, Please… for the love of… well, whatever you believe in… stop categorizing female horror as ‘paranormal romance’. I know that it’s a popular genre, but it’s not the same as horror. Paranormal romance might have some tropes in common such as vampires, werewolves and zombies, but horror is much darker, and the main theme of a horror story is not about love.
I’m not saying that a horror story can’t include a romantic encounter; in fact, I would encourage such strong emotions in a storyline. For a reader to fully enjoy a horror story, the characters must attract the empathy of the reader. The main and supporting characters must be as ‘real’, as three dimensional as possible. That includes hope and love, and then shredding those feelings right before the reader’s eyes. Nothing is more cruel than tormenting the main character’s loved ones and ripping the reader’s heart out while they read it, helpless to change a thing.
I once wrote a story about a horrific clock, but the story lacked something. After a ‘light bulb’ moment I realized my characters had little else to lose than their own lives. Scary, yes, but after adding someone they dearly love into the mix and suddenly the story reached a whole new level of suspense. By including an autistic daughter, I added both a deeper sense of love and responsibility and brought the horror element to a more gruesome peak.
There is much more to emotional writing than ‘boy meets girl, and they fall in love’. Both male and female writers use emotions as a base, but for some reason, men don’t suffer from the same prejudices women. Having said that, I’m sure the romance world is the other way around, and it’s probably harder for men to get published (perhaps we can dedicate March to Men in Romance?)
The winds of change are upon us, not only with the writers, but even with the characters in “Horror Land”. In the past, women often held roles the horror genre that involved little clothing, high heels, and some tragic judgment calls (she always trusts the bad guy who fools her with his charms). Now the female characters get to be stronger, more self-sufficient, and therefore more interesting. Female protagonists and antagonists don’t need to be sexy to be mainstream. Samara is a perfectly credible monster, and she didn’t have to wear a bikini to prove it.
Female writers should follow in the footsteps of great ladies like Mary Shelley, Poppy Z. Brite, Shirley Jackson, and Caitlin Kiernan. I don’t think we ladies mean to conquer the world, but we do want more mainstream exposure, and experience the same standards of credibility as our male peers.
One day there won’t be lists of the best ‘horror writers’ that fail to feature a single female. One day we will no longer occupy less than 10% of the horror writers population. One day, people won’t think that women can’t write truly horrific stories, because we do, and given the chance, we will keep you looking over your shoulder for a long time after you read us.
One day, hopefully in the near future, we won’t need a “Women in Horror” month because we will be so integrated into the genre that it will seem ridiculous to put a spotlight on anything except the storytelling.
One day…
Soulman
Underneath a bridge, on a crisp and cold night in Junction River, three figures sat, clad in the shadows of darkness. One, a fat man dressed in multiple layers of clothing, tried to start a fire in a self-made fire pit. He grunted slightly, and his breath created little clouds that resembled delicate wisps of smoke.
With silent grace, slow and deliberate, I made my way down to their chosen spot for the night.
“Well, hello, stranger.”
The man who spoke to me sat on a fold-out chair by the fire pit. He was Caucasian, in his late thirties, and he wasn’t handsome. His skin was coarse, and he had a pug nose. Still, if I didn’t know better, his friendly face and genuine smile might indicate that he was a friendly man.
“Have you come to warm yourself by our fire on this chilly October night?”
I blinked my one good eye to acknowledge his question, and my answer was a curt nod.
“Shit, what fire?” said a second man, dragging out the ‘i’ in ‘shit’. He glanced at the big man still struggling to light the wood in the fire pit. “That big motherfucker couldn’t light a fire if he was standing in Hell itself.”
The man on the bucket had a narrow face, and his skin was a patchy black. It appeared white at some parts, and darker at others, as if someone had randomly taken off his pigment with a paint scraper. His grin consisted of a few remaining teeth, brown from rot.
Heroin addict. It was easy to spot them. The drugs ate away at their souls as well as their bodies.
“Now, now, Master Weasel, let’s not doubt the capabilities of our giant friend here,” the man on the chair scolded with the flourish of a poet. “There is a special challenge in lighting the wood on a night like this.”
My eyes glanced over the man with the pug nose. His clothes were weathered, worn and faded, but I recognized the expensive brand of suit he wore. His stylish ensemble was somewhat ruined by the several layers of clothing he wore underneath, and the big grease stains that covered them, but it would be clear to anyone with a keen eye that this man was not born for the streets. This man came from the land of opportunity, in contrast to most of the ‘street-born’ who were thrown into poverty from their mother’s lap.
“Wood’s too wet,” the big man who tried to build the fire interjected.
From up close, I saw he was a giant of a man. What I mistook for fat was actually muscle, though his face was very chunky, and his large chin wobbled on his neck like a canvas bag of lard.
All three men dressed in thick layers to keep the cold wind at bay. In the stinging breeze, I smelled it, the sour scent of stale body odor mixed with garbage and smoke from previous fires: the scent of the street folk, the beggars and the forgotten men.
The large man bent down and held his lighter to the wood. I let out a soft breath, so gentle that no one saw, and the fire flared. A victorious yelp escaped the large man’s lips and echoed off the stones of the bridge’s foundation.
“I did it!” His voice vibrated low and deep but lilted with a childish tone. I saw the surprise on his face.
“Well done,” said the man on the chair. Then he turned to me and made a grand gesture with his arms as if he were a thespian. “Come and join our fire, stranger.” To his companion he said, “And come and sit, Big Dave; we shall share our spoils by the flames.” I sat on an overturned crate next to the man on the chair, and Dave sat to my right, on a stack of loose bricks.
The man on the chair stretched his back and shot me a satisfied smile. His hand, clad in a fingerless glove, reached underneath the layers of his clothing and he produced a flask. “To keep out the cold,” he explained as he lifted the flask to his lips. “Salute.”
“Save me some,” the small black man said. With a hungry grin, his dark eyes glanced at the little flask. “I’ve been thirsty all day.”
“Guests first,” said the man with the flask, and he handed it to me. “What is your name friend?”
I blinked and took the flask from his fingers. “They call me Soulman,” I answered and took a little swig. The bottle contained whiskey. It burned in my mouth, and I hated the taste, but I did not wish to be rude.
“Shit,” the little black man spoke again. “Soulman? Ain’t nobody ever tell you, you is white, motherfucker?” He laughed, revealing the stumps of a few remaining teeth.
Without showing any facial expression, I handed the flask to the big man who sat next to me.
“Ignore my rude companion,” the first man said. “Like you, we have adopted names for our street personas.” He pointed at the skinny black man. “That delightful fellow over there is called Weasel. I think the name derives from a combination of his memorable looks and his interesting personality.” The man next to me winked, and the black man spat on the ground. He reached his hand out as the large man handed him the flask.
“Shit,” he said again, adding a few extra syllables, and he rolled his dark eyes.
“That gentleman next to you is Big Dave,” the man continued. “And I…” he waved his hands past his torso with a dramatic motion, “am called the Candyman.”
He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. The man had a firm grip, and his eyes never left mine.
“They calls him that because he likes the children,” Weasel explained. He put the flask to his chapped lips and took a swig.
The Candyman raised a humble hand. “I don’t actually lure them with sweets,” he said. “Children are far too clever for such tricks these days. Men like me need to be more creative.”
Chantal Noordeloos lives in the Netherlands, where she spends her time with her wacky, supportive husband, and outrageously cunning daughter, who is growing up to be a supervillain. When she is not busy exploring interesting new realities, or arguing with characters (aka writing), she likes to dabble in drawing.
In 1999 she graduated from the Norwich School of Art and Design, where she focused mostly on creative writing.
There are many genres that Chantal likes to explore in her writing. Currently Sci-fi Steampunk is one of her favorites, but her ‘go to’ genre will always be horror. “It helps being scared of everything; that gives me plenty of inspiration,” she says.
Chantal likes to write for all ages, and storytelling is the element of writing that she enjoys most. “Writing should be an escape from everyday life, and I like to provide people with new places to escape to, and new people to meet.”
