And on the Other Hand There are Slasher Flicks

Sometimes, I am a little bit afraid of my own mind and of the place in my mind that could be considered my writers refuge. If there is a part of my un/consciousness that is a warm and cozy cabin in the woods, there is also a pseudo-psychopathic part that stalks trespassers, slinking between trees and clutching a rusty axe, salivating with bloodthirsty anticipation. Outside of the fire-lit rooms strewn with hideous hand-knitted afghans (the much preferred Christmas present from various elderly relatives), are rooms in shadow--the light of the fire making the rooms beyond draw back into darkness, huddling in slightly damp corners and hanging precariously from the cracked plaster ceiling. The mind cabin is like a Caravaggio painting, the tennebrism inherent to firelight illuminating some things and obscuring others. And part of the beauty of such a setting resides in the stark contrast of the dark. These are the places in which our monsters are born, our villains, our tragic heroes, our comic relief. There is an alchemy of thought that can occur only in this darkness, in the darkroom of the imagination. And a writer will sometimes create his or her own version of Dr. Frankenstein's monster, who inevitably haunts that cabin of the mind and any work it might produce, but who is also necessary to see the gold-hued products of the fireside in full relief.