“I am a woman in horror.”
This is a sentence used by many women to describe the genre in which they write, create, and craft, a sentence that may not seem like much on the surface. But sit with this sentiment a bit longer, and you’ll soon come to realize that this statement transcends genre classifications.
Being a woman comes with more than feminine associations, preconceived notions, or frilly ideas. Unfortunately, horror is something that women know all too well for a plethora of reasons. From weighty social expectations to feeling uncomfortable in our own skin, horror is at home within the female experience, giving way to feelings of isolation, doubt, and ultimately, fear.
Yet, the biggest combatant of these feelings comes in the form of comradery, from words spoken by fellow women that are a friendly reminder that no one is quite so alone. And what better person to share these words than female horror authors, the voices that are a guiding light in the darkest of spaces? And how does writing in this space affect being a woman?
“[Writing horror has] forced me to confront my rage. I never realized how much anger I had suppressed over the years until it started bubbling up in my work. Working in this genre and being honest with myself and my readers requires me to wrestle with parts of myself and my identity and experience that I had tried to brush aside to cope, to just continue existing. It’s a reckoning every time.”
Rachel Harrison, author of titles such as So Thirsty and Black Sheep, fully understands this dynamic as evidenced by her reflection of writing horror as it impacts her own relationship with womanhood. In fact, it’s from her post on Threads that this opening paragraph was born. Much of the female experience is made possible through simply getting by or getting through life without upset or harm. To minimize, to remain unseen, to not be a problem. Shoving aside so much of what is inherent to our day-to-day experiences has a price, a visitor that comes calling that demands attention. And through Harrison’s honest writing, we see strong women, funny women, and complicated women tackle these very normally quiet moments of comprise at full volume. This “reckoning” that Harrison mentions is something that’s all too relatable as also evidenced by Alma Katsu’s, author of The Hunger and The Deep, response to the same prompt.
“I think women have a different relationship to horror because we are the victims of violence so much more than men. In the past, we were more often depicted only as victims, as helpless, as a lesser thing that existed only for someone stronger to exert his will upon. Thank goodness that’s changed. You know, I’m probably older than your average reader, and many women of my generation won’t read horror or watch horror movies. They tell me they’re too sensitive to fear, that if they get that inside their heads they can’t sleep–that sort of thing. But younger women aren’t running away from their fears–they’re embracing them. They’re looking for stories where women face their fears and save themselves… You may know that I worked in intelligence for a long time. One of my jobs involved studying genocides and mass atrocities. One of the things I learned from that work was how brave and resilient women are in crisis situations. They’re often the ones who keep their heads and save their families, if not their entire villages. They’re the ones who find a way to repair horrible emotional scars so that families who’ve done great violence on one another can continue to live in the same village. So, writing about strong women isn’t a fairy tale: it happens every day, we just don’t celebrate it the way we celebrate war-fighting. It’s about where a society places its values… Writing horror has made me a happier person, that’s for sure. Following atrocities day after day, you see that the real horror in the world is man-made. Writing horror gives me an outlet, a way to talk about the evil that inside each of us, and to try to make people aware of it.”
Katsu’s wisdom on this subject speaks volumes. A female voice within the world of horror illustrates the complexities of ideas we have long generalized, topics such as bravery, resiliency, and even love. Women have always been strong as evidenced by the stories being told today by women depict every variation of this strength. Cynthia Pelayo, author of Vanishing Daughters and The Forgotten Sisters, reflects on her strengths through her own writing.
“I think writing about the themes that I do has made me more introspective, and honestly more private. In reflecting on my current writing, it’s ultimately grounded on the love of family and there’s nothing I want to protect more than my own family.”
While the world may promote masculine ideas of strength, this kind of devotion and love referenced by Pelayo paint an authentic picture of the everyday resiliency women produce. This is not a loud or boastful measure of bravery, rather a steadfast one that supports so many others in times of distress, hurt, or worry. Female characters within the horror genre offer these very things in addition to blood-soaked reckonings, a complex duality. Gwendolyn Kiste, author of The Haunting of Velkwood and Reluctant Immortals, unpacks a facet of this complicated dichotomy.
“My writing has more been an expression of my experience as a woman rather than overtly affecting that experience. That being said, it’s certainly made me more aware of the nuances of what it means to be a woman in a world that often isn’t respectful or even aware of the experiences of women. Being female–and wanting to tell that story–isn’t easy. A man can write a female character (and do it very poorly), but he’ll get accolades for it. Meanwhile, if a woman tells her own story authentically, it’s far too often dismissed or treated as less than. After years of seeing this happen, it makes me more determined to keep writing about my own experience as truthfully and frequently as possible.”
This conviction to continue to share these stories feels dire in a world such as ours when so many of our experiences have been dismissed, particularly in relation to our own physical bodies. And on this note, body-horror feels like a uniquely female specialty. From constant unwarranted changes to society’s general avoidance to anything to do with a period, a woman knows the ins and outs of horrific bodily sensations. Liz Kerin, author of Night’s Edge and First Light, expounds upon this very idea as she reflects on her relationship with writing horror.
“Something so unique about horror from the female perspective is that women are often scared of all sorts of things male-driven literature rarely stops to consider. One of the most striking arenas for me has been body horror from a female perspective. Women’s bodies are always transforming, and it’s as horrifying as it is awe inspiring. Writing female characters in this genre has helped me wrap my head around my own physical transformations, and how it’s impacted me mentally. It’s doubly impactful when readers approach you and tell you how much those depictions helped THEM process their own place in this world. In an odd way, writing horror and being part of this community helped me when my kid was born, mainly because I found the physical process to be so frightening and disturbing. I didn’t feel pressured to wax poetic about the joys of childbirth because of the space I write in. I felt I had permission to be like, ‘Yeah this is insane and disgusting and so scary, and I’m glad so many people agree!’ When I wrote about reproductive horror in First Light, it felt very personal and earned. I knew other women would get it, if I really went full throttle. I feel seen by my audience just as much as they might feel seen by my stories, and that’s such a special connection to have. I really cherish it, the same way I cherish my female friendships.”
This form of honesty regarding the female experience stands apart in a world that is built around normalizing what so many feel is horrific. From the passive treatment of women to the veneration of motherhood without regard to its bodily trauma, an honest voice that that breaks through these norms is so welcome and moving. Author of Maeve Fly and American Rapture, CJ Leede confirms this sentiment in her response as well.
“I’ve felt for a long time that what is generally considered to be femininity doesn’t necessarily align with the way I view it. It can be such a personal thing, and yet we have such a tendency to try and make it something universal… Even on a basic biological level, (this is a bit personal, but) I have pretty debilitating endometriosis, so I have to skip my periods to function well in the world and haven’t had one in years, and I don’t want children. I’ve always felt pretty outside those inherent female biological functions and the bonds they seem to create between women. But writing Maeve really unlocked a major freedom for me. She moves through the world in a way I’ve seen men do in other horror novels– without apology, without permission, and most importantly without the traumatic backstory we almost always assign to monstrous women and *not* their male counterparts in horror and transgressive fiction. But at the same time, she is a princess and relishes in her interests. She kind of defines her own femininity, and writing her unlocked a new level of comfort in my own (even if she is a little…psycho)… And with American Rapture, I really was exploring the ways in which young women, and young folks of all types, can be so hamstrung in America and specifically within the Christian framework–or at least the one I was raised with–and that definitely helped me find another kind of freedom… I think horror allows for us to be whoever we want to be–or even don’t want to be– in a safe, hypothetical, fictional space. And by getting to explore all parts of ourselves and even ones that we would never actually want to embody, but by posing the question *what if*, freedom is inevitably what follows. Horror allows for the *what if* in a profound way. By allowing ourselves to go to the darkest places in that fictional reality, in a way we remove fear entirely from the equation. And then we’re just left with maybe a clearer version of who we are. And I think that applies to our ideas of what it is to be female, or even more importantly, what it is to just be a human being.”
For women, the horror genre is a sandbox in which we can unpack our experiences of every variety from the monstrous to the mundane. The idea of catharsis is often tossed around regarding this kind of feminine literature, a way to scream as loud as we wish through writing or reading about the complexities of this very existence. And while this screaming may leave us hoarse and ragged after so many stories, there’s a certain comfort in this.
No woman screams alone in this world as evidenced by every reflection given in this very article. Yes, we are all women in horror, but, if not for the works of these women and so many others, my own experience would not be the same. With every horror novel written by a woman, one less female reader feels alone in their fear. And what a powerful thing.
There’s nothing that can ease the sharpness of the aspects that make women experts in horror. You cannot diminish the feeling of being overlooked, diminished, or reduced. But what we can do is celebrate the female voices that combat these horrific things, that provide light on the darkest of days and give us comfort when all seems to be burning down. There is nothing more valuable than this strength, than this community that means absolutely everything. We are women in horror, and we are here to stay.
