The Effects of Loss as a Paradigm of Literary Criticism for Horror Fiction

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

Horror fiction is a literature of loss. The losses, of course, are significant: no one has ever written a novel or produced a film about a character stubbing his toe.

Often, the losses are physical (a loss of ability or a loss of limb) or personal (a loss of freedom or a loss of dignity).

However, losses may also be psychological, or emotional (a loss of identity or a loss of sanity). 

Likewise, losses may be social (a loss of kinship or a loss of family members or friends).

Other losses may be spiritual (a loss of faith or a loss of salvation). The losses depicted in horror fiction result from a variety of causes, but they are established, most often, through particular situations or specific settings.

A loss introduces a type of change, physical, personal, psychological, social, religious, or otherwise. Often, a preliminary loss, significant in itself, is a prelude to another, greater, perhaps vital, loss—for example, death. A loss may also be a test of love, of faith, or of a relationship.

Literary criticism based upon the loss suffered by the main character (and, to a lesser degree, other characters) must begin by identifying the particular loss that the protagonist has suffered. What type of loss occurred? When and where did the loss occur? Why did the loss occur? How does the loss change the character? (Most horror stories largely ignore the last question, although the question of what caused the loss to occur may, on occasion, be more important than any of the other questions.)

In other words, in a critical analysis of a horror story, whether it takes place upon the page or the soundstage, should be applied to all the elements of fiction. (The answer to the question “HOW?” typically represents the story's turning point, or climax. Often, it helps to start the “WHY?” answer with the infinitive “to.” if an element is unimportant in summarizing the story, it can be omitted.) 

Here are a few examples.

Question	Answer
WHO lost?	Carietta (“Carrie”) White
WHAT was lost?	dignity
WHEN did the loss occur?
WHERE did the loss occur?	her high school prom
HOW did the loss occur?	pigs' blood is dumped on her
WHY did the loss occur?	to humiliate her

Carrie (novel) by Stephen King

After identifying each element in relation to the question regarding the loss suffered by the protagonist, write a single sentence that summarizes the plot. In doing so, the order of the answers may be rearranged:

Carrie White loses her dignity when bullies dump pigs' blood on her to humiliate her at her high school prom.

Then, in another single sentence, explain how the protagonist's loss changed him or her:

Carrie dies after she avenges herself against her tormentors.

Question	Answer
WHO lost?	Carietta (“Carrie”) White
WHAT was lost?	dignity
WHEN did the loss occur?
WHERE did the loss occur?	her high school prom
HOW did the loss occur?	pigs' blood is dumped on her
WHY did the loss occur?	to humiliate her

“The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe

A narrator is arrested when he hallucinates after murdering an old man in his home to rid himself of his victim's “evil eye.”

Unable to escape his guilty conscience, the narrator suffers psychological torment.

(Note: Although it seems that the narrator loses his sanity in the story, he does not; he has lost his sanity before the story begins; it is his freedom that he loses when the police arrest him.)

Question	Answer
WHO lost?	Nancy Thompson
WHAT was lost?	friends
WHEN did the loss occur?
WHERE did the loss occur?	hometown
HOW did the loss occur?	attacks by Freddy Krueger, a supernatural killer
WHY did the loss occur?	to avenge his death at the hands of his victim's parents

A Nightmare on Elm Street

Nancy Thompson loses her friends to attacks by Freddy Krueger, a supernatural killer, who murders his victims to avenge his own death at their parents' hands.

Nancy survives Krueger's attacks, but she is traumatized by her experience, even as she lives with guilt for her involvement in the attempted murder of her stalker.

Question	Answer
WHO lost?	Norman Bates
WHAT was lost?	identity
WHEN did the loss occur?
WHERE did the loss occur?	Bates Motel and house
HOW did the loss occur?	arrest for murdering Marion Crane and private detective Milton Arbogast
WHY did the loss occur?	to avenge his death at the hands of his victim's parents

Psycho (movie)

Norman Bates loses his identity, becoming his “mother,” after he murders Marion Crane after she checks into the Bates Motel so he cannot have a relationship with her and murders private detective Milton Arbogast to prevent him from discovering the truth about Marion's disappearance.
 

Norman ceases to exist as himself, becoming completely absorbed by his alternate personality.

Question	Answer
WHO lost?	Julie James
WHAT was lost?	friends; security
WHEN did the loss occur?
WHERE did the loss occur?	hometown
HOW did the loss occur?	murders by intended murder victim
WHY did the loss occur?	to avenge himself against the victim's attempt to murder him

I Know What You Did Last Summer (movie)

Julie James loses her friends and her security after their intended murder victim kills them and threatens her to avenge himself.

Julie lives in constant fear of being killed at any moment.

As these examples suggest, the theme of horror fiction is the effects of loss.

A few of the other many types of loss that may occur in horror fiction, their effects, and their contexts include:

Type of Loss	Possible Effects	Context
Perception (i. e., blindness, deafness, tactile insensitivity, inability to smell, inability to taste)	helplessness; loss of self-confidence; timidity	situation or setting
Ability (e. g., mobility) (i. e., being bound, incarcerated, or trapped)	helplessness; loss of self-confidence; timidity	situation or setting
Assistance (i. e. emergency services), as a result of being isolated	helplessness; loss of self-confidence; timidity	situation or setting
Effectiveness (e. g., an amputation or a broken limb)	vulnerability; loss of self-confidence; timidity	situation
Sanity	vulnerability; confusion; poor judgment	situation
Control (e. g., as a result of demonic possession or being a patient)	autonomy; independence; confidence	situation
Family or friends	emotional and social support	situation

Humor and Horror: An Unlikely Mix

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

Jib Fowles, a professor of communications at the University of Houston, wrote several books on advertising. In Mass Advertising as Social Forecast, he lists the fifteen “basic needs” to which advertisements often appeal in promoting goods and services. In addition, he identifies three “stylistic features” of ads that influence “the way a basic appeal is presented”: humor, celebrities, and images of the past and present. This post concerns how horror novels and movies use humor as a way to enhance horror.

A good example of the unlikely mix of humor and horror occurs in Alfred Hitchcock's 1960 classic, Psycho. After Norman Bates's alter ego, “Mother,” murders Marion Crane, a guest at the Bates Motel, he disposes of her body by placing it in the trunk of her car and pushing the automobile into a nearby pond. As he looks on, eating seeds or nuts, the vehicle begins to sink. When it's half-submerged, the car seems to settle, as it stops sinking. Bates looks horrified. He glances to his right, looks back at the car, then darts his gaze to his left. As he next looks at the automobile, it begins to sink again. Bates hazards a slight smile. The car vanishes completely, the water converging over its roof. It is altogether lost to sight. Bates's smile broadens. He has succeeded in covering up “Mother's” crime.

The television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer also mixes horror with humor. Examples abound; here are a few:

In the episode “Helpless,” The Council of Watchers deliberately strips Buffy Summers of her supernatural powers so she can be “tested” in a confrontation with Kralik, a psychotic vampire who kidnaps Buffy's mother, Joyce. At one point, Buffy has trouble opening a jar of peanut butter. Her friend, Xander Harris, who's often overlooked because of his lack of superhuman abilities, seizes the opportunity to show his superior strength, as he smugly offers to open the jar for her. However, he humiliates himself instead, when, after several attempts, he is unable to open the jar, and his attempt to impress Buffy backfires.

In an encounter with Count Dracula, in “Buffy vs. Dracula,” Buffy dispatches the vampire with a wooden stake, causing him to burst into dust; a few moments later, smoke swirls, as he reappears, as good—or evil—as new. She dispatches him a second time. “Don't you think I watch your movies?” she asks. “You always come back.” When Dracula attempts a second comeback, as she waits, stake in hand, she warns him, “I'm standing right here,” at which point, the swirling smoke vanishes.

Buffy episodes are metaphors for the experiences that young adults often undergo. One such episode, “Living Conditions,” finds its humor in the metaphor itself, which likens the experience of sharing a dorm room with another person, whose interests and personality are nothing like one's own, to living with a demon. Almost everything one roommate does annoys the other. Buffy doesn't like Kathy's cutting her toenails in their room, she doesn't appreciate her taste in music, and she disapproves of her roommate's Celine Dion poster. Kathy doesn't like Buffy's desire to sleep with a window open, her gadding about campus, or her carelessness about leaving her chewed gum on shared surfaces. Buffy doesn't accept Kathy's suggestion that they each pay for their own respective telephone calls, nor does she like Kathy's labeling of the food items in their shared refrigerator or her borrowing clothes without permission.

In Psycho, the humor springs from two sources: situational irony and Bates's (i. e., actor Anthony Perkins's) reactions to the situation. The irony results from the unexpected apparent overturn of Bates's intentions, as the car containing Marion's body seems to come to rest before it's entirely submerged. As a result, instead of concealing the evidence of “Mother's” crime, the car, remaining not only visible but in the middle of the pond, would call attention to itself, and investigators would soon find Marion's corpse. Bates's shock and worry, followed by his relief and satisfaction, expressed through his nervousness, his fear of being discovered (suggested by his glancing about), and his smiles, show the emotions he feels as his plan is first threatened and then succeeds.

The humor of Xander's comeuppance, as he attempts to display his superior masculine strength as he helps the “helpless” vampire slayer, who normally possesses many times the might of even the strongest man, backfires, stems from the deflation of his smug attitude and his chauvinism. It is one of several examples of humor in Buffy that is based on deflating unbecoming character traits.

“Dracula vs. Buffy” parodies the trope of the returning villain. In many horror movies, the menacing character returns, despite having been killed, sometimes in particularly brutal, seemingly definitive, ways. Michael Meyers, the antagonist of the Halloween series of films, returns, as does A Nightmare on Elm Street's franchise villain, Freddy Krueger. In some cases, as in Buffy's own “Bad Eggs,” something remains through which the monster's offspring may return. The humor of “Dracula vs. Buffy” relies on viewers' familiarity with the trope and their recognition that it is being spoofed.

“LivingConditions” exaggerates the conflicts that arise between people who have different, if not opposing, attitudes, beliefs, habits, interests, perceptions, principles, and lifestyles. As roommates, Buffy and Kathy are an odd couple whose differences, thanks to the influence of the Hellmouth, finally escalate to violence.

Although for some horror fiction fans, touches of humor can enhance horror the way salt, added to sweet treats, heightens the taste of sugar, too much humor or its use at the wrong time can be detrimental to the story's effect, and it takes an experienced writer to mix humor with horror in such a way as to add to, rather than to subtract from, the story as a whole. Both Hitchcock and Buffy's creator, Joss Whedon, are able to pull it off. 

As Fowles warns with regard to the use of humor in advertising, humor must be used cautiously. “Humor can be treacherous,” Fowles cautions, “because it can get out of hand and smother the product information.” It can also overwhelm the horror of a horror novel or movie.

Underscoring Horror

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

Horror movies aren't about stubbing one's toe. They're about life-and-death struggles, about suffering life-threatening injuries, about being driven insane.

But they can be about subtler, but equally horrific, experiences, although they seldom are.

In my own urban fantasy novel, A Whole World Full of Hurt, one scene is about some worm-like monster that consumes a woman from within, on her wedding day, as she stands at the altar, about to exchange vows with her husband-to-be. The subtext relates to a bride's anxiety about entering a lifelong relationship and her questions, largely unconscious, perhaps, about what could go wrong with such a union.

Every scene in a horror novel should have a deeper layer, a theme beyond the literal horror, that goes to the heart of being human in a hostile world. (For example, the scene previous to that which involves the bride on her day of days concerns a college student who feels guilty about not spending enough time with his younger brother; collecting for the newspaper from one of his kid brother's peskier customers is an attempt to rectify such neglect, but it doesn't go well.)

By coupling scenes of horror with existential situations and predicaments, writers give symbolic significance to such action scenes, thereby enriching the story. Stories, even horror stories, are about people (i. e., characters), after all, not about mere incidents in themselves.

In A Whole World Full of Hurt, the scene involving the worm-things came to me, from who-knows-where—my imagination, the stockpile of horrific imagery I've accumulated over the years, my own unconscious fears?—as I wrote the scene. I hadn't planned it. I had worked out the structure of the novel, knew who most of the characters were, and had the setting firmly in mind, but the monsters, the plot twists, and the thematic significance of various scenes presented themselves out of the ether, if you like.

That's often not the case with me and with many other writers. Ideas come from everywhere, bidden and unbidden. One source is news, especially, if you're a writer of dark fantasy or horror (if there's really a difference between the two) is bizarre news.

Here's an item, for example, that might easily suggest the basis for a novel of fear and trembling. Part of a headline in a Daily Mail newspaper proclaimed, “Women's breasts 'eat' themselves after they finish breastfeeding.” Remove the quotation marks from around the verb “eat,” and the word acquires a literal, rather than a figurative, meaning: breasts actually consume themselves. By “eating” cells “left over from . . . breastfeeding,” a process known as “phagocytosis ,” breasts revert from their engorged, milk-producing state to their “natural state in a matter of days,” undergoing a type of self-destruction, the article informs us.

Male anglerfish (circled) attached to female; he will atrophy to little more than parasitic testicles.

In itself, this process could make a remarkable short story, if not a novel, but it could also be extended to other anatomical parts that essentially commit suicide after they've completed the process for which they've evolved to perform: the completion of ovulation, gestation, or ejaculation could cause the ovaries, the uterus, or the testes to cannibalize themselves or to be cannibalized by the body. That's pretty much what happens with the male anglerfish.

Different stories would result according to whether a woman or a man knew, ahead of time, the fate that ovulation, gestation, or ejaculation would bring or remained ignorant of this effect until the process was complete. If a person knew in advance that her ovaries or uterus would self-destruct or his testicles would consume themselves or be consumed bu their bodies, what type of character would sacrifice this part of him- or herself and why? Who would refuse to accept this fate and why? What effects would the decision have, either way?

Other news items that might suggest equally bizarre horrors are the one reported under the eye-catching title “Tapeworm Removed From Woman's Breast 5 Years After She Swallowed Live Frogs.” What kind of woman swallows live frogs? A carnival sideshow performer? A starving woman who raids a frog farm (yes, there are such places)? An overweight woman on a tapeworm diet? What would possess a person to embrace such an extreme measure—besides entertaining a rather kinky audience of voyeurs, staving off starvation, or losing a few pounds of unwanted weight? Such a story cries out for psychological and sociological exploration.

The important thing, though, is to associate the horror of the story and its scenes with character and theme. That way, your short story of novel will have something to present besides blood and guts; you will underscore the horror of your story by making it symbolize something meaningful beyond itself. You will emphasize your terror by making it represent something about human beings (your characters) that most people didn't realize or, in rare cases, perhaps didn't know at all.

"Backcountry": A Study in the Causes and Consquences of Poor Judgments

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

 

In Backcountry, in Powassan, Ontario, and Caddy Lake, Manitoba, Alex convinces his girlfriend Jenn to go camping with him in one of Canada's remote provincial parks. She's a lawyer, while he's a landscaper. He believes his expertise as a woodsman will allow him to shine once he's in his element, and he wants to impress her, because he plans to pop the question while they're on their trip. Nothing goes as he'd hoped, and, despite his rudimentary skills as a woodsman—he can pitch a tent, chop wood, start a fire, and read sign—it's soon clear he's in over his head. In fact, once she's forced to fend for herself, Jenn, ironically, proves herself to be more competent than Alex, whose vanity, eagerness to impress Jenn at any cost, and minimal woodcraft, led him to make a series of poor judgments that, if it were not for their catastrophic consequences, might have made the film a comedy. He makes at least a dozen serious errors in judgment:

He refuses a ranger's offer of a park map. He's been to the park so many times, he says, he has no need of a map. As a result, when he later becomes lost, he and Jenn have no guidance out of the forest.

Annoyed that Jenn returns telephone calls during their trip to the park, Alex removes her cell phone from her backpack, leaving it behind, in the trunk of his car. Once the couple becomes lost, they have no way to call for help.

He leaves Jenn alone when he goes to chop wood for their campfire. In his absence, a stranger, Brad, happens upon Jenn. As Alex himself later points out, both to Jenn and to Brad, Brad could have been a dangerous “nut” who might have raped or killed Jenn. Despite this realization, Alex again leaves Jenn alone when he goes to retrieve the hatchet he left in the side of a tree at the site at which he'd chopped the wood.

When he spies a bear print, Alex doesn't share this sign with Jenn. Jenn has bear spray and a traffic flare that they could use against the bear, but she is unaware of its presence. The bear could (and, later, does) kill someone.

Although he is uncertain of the correct path to the lake, Alex continues their trek through the forest, despite his not having a map, a cell phone, or a weapon (other than, perhaps, his hatchet).

During the night, Jenn hears mysterious sounds. Without investigating, Alex tells Jenn she's hearing nothing more than acorns falling from the trees, onto their tent. He may believe the sounds are the effects of falling acorns, as he says, or he may not want Jenn to think the sounds are caused by a bear, whether to keep her from being afraid or to prevent her from wanting to leave, in which case he is also being deceitful.

After hearing the sounds of what be a bear, instead of falling acorns, Alex refuses to leave the park.

After seeing a broken tree branch indicative of a bear's nearby presence, Alex refuses to leave the park.

After seeing the carcass of a dead deer indicating the presence of a bear—and of a bear that is both starving (bears, otherwise, don't eat meat—and predatory)—Alex refuses to leave the park.

Even after the bear visits their campsite, Alex refuses to leave the park.

Early in the movie, Alex injures himself by dropping the canoe in which he and Jenn arrive at their initial campsite on his foot. He doesn't tend to the injury for over a day, by which time his sock is soaked in his blood. He hangs the sock in a tree, and the blood attracts a hungry black bear.

Alex leaves his hatchet outside the couple's tent. Had he brought the hatchet inside the tent, he would have had a weapon with which to fight off the attacking bear; without it, he has nothing but his hands and feet.

Jenn also makes several errors in judgment. She is mindful of Alex's need to assert his masculinity and defers to his wishes and judgments, which, under other circumstances, might not have life-and-death significance; in the wilds of the Canadian park they visit, such deference can, and does, have such consequences. These are the more significant errors in judgment Jenn makes:

She does not insist that Alex accept a park map from the ranger or accept one herself.

In Alex's absence, Jenn invites Brad into their campsite.

She does not insist that Alex make sure the “acorns” he says are falling on their tent really are acorns.

She does not insist that Alex take her home after she sees evidence of the nearby presence of a bear.

She returns to their campsite after the bear has killed Alex so she can retrieve the engagement ring he has shown her.

Although Jenn, like Alex, makes mistakes in judgment, she is not a woodman and the couple's survival is not primarily her responsibility. In addition, she is not deceitful toward Alex, as he is to her. When she is alone, after Alex's death, her decisions are wise, allowing her to survive the bear and the wilderness.

Despite these mistakes, Jenn also makes wise decisions, even in the face of danger and under the pressure of stress:

She has the presence of mind to use her bear spray and her whistle to twice frighten off the bear before it can attack her.

She bathes her right arm, which was injured in the bear attack, and bandages it.

She sleeps in the fork of a tree's high branches.

She uses her flare to signal for help.

She recalls Alex's advice about eating spearmint berries and Brad's counsel that hikers should climb down the right, not the left, side of the park's waterfall.

She follows a buck, hoping it will lead her to water or out of the forest. The animal leads her to the waterfall.

She makes a splint and sets the leg she breaks in a fall during her descent of the cliff beside the waterfall.

Despite her amateur status as a woodsman, Jenn is more successful in navigating the forest and escaping the bear than Alex had been. His decisions endangered their lives. Some of hers did as well, although most of them helped her to survive her ordeal.

The movie does a good job of depicting the consequences of the characters' respective behaviors, suggesting that what one does results from his or her character no less than his or her motives.

Alex wants to impress Jenn, but he wants to do so because of his own insecurities. He feels inferior to her, because, in the everyday world in which they live the majority of the time, she, as a lawyer, occupies a position of greater status that he has as a landscaper.

Although she frequently defers to him and is eager, most of the time, to support his sense of himself and to shore up any doubts he may have of his masculinity or personal worth, she seems ambiguous about these aspects of his character. When she loses her temper after they become lost in the park, she says she wants to speak honestly to him “for once,” calling him a “loser” who always manages to mishandle or otherwise botch “everything.”

Alex also seems to care less about Jenn than he does about his own fragile self-image. He often rushes up and down the trail, leaving Jenn in his wake to fend for herself in the rough terrain, among tree branches, logs, brambles, and other obstacles. Even after he knows that a dangerous bear is following them and lurks in the vicinity of their campsites, he continues, without regard for his safety of her own, to proceed on their misguided journey, endangering their lives. In preparing for their trip, he took no precautions, failing to bring bear spray, a whistle, or a rifle.

In his mind, he is too macho to need such provisions or to heed the danger signs he sees in the forest. His poor judgment, however, is no match for the starving bear. The animal's ripping and tearing him apart, which is shown in grisly detail, is proof that he is no match for nature. In trying to impress Jenn by proving his manhood, Alex endangers both his life and hers.

At the beginning of the movie, as they are driving to the remote park, Jenn gives Alex a multiple-choice “boyfriend test” published in an issue of a women's magazine she's brought with her. Many of the items deal with consideration. Alex fails the test miserably, suggesting he isn't considerate at all of Jenn. He cares more about himself than he does her. Although he dies protecting her, giving her an opportunity to escape, it is he who, through his own insecurities and poor judgments, put her—and himself—in such a dire situation to begin with. As the test predicted, Alex was poor boyfriend material. Chances are, he'd have been poor marriage material as well. Jenn was lucky to survive the bear, as she was lucky to survive Alex.

The Ingredients of the Thriller

Copyright 2012 by Gary L. Pullman

In Thriller 2, Clive Cussler introduces readers to the thriller, not as a novel but in its short story form. In fact the anthology contains twenty-three thrillers. By authors as diverse as Jeffrey Deaver, R. L. Stine, Lisa Jackson, and Ridley Pearson. One of the editor's intentions, he tells readers, is to introduce those who are “new to the world of thrillers” to the genre or to allow “the rabid fan” the “chance to discover another side” of his or her “favorite author.”

Another of the editor's purposes is to define the genre. However, Cussler doesn't so so in so many words. Instead, he offers clues. The stories in this genre are not easily pigeonholed, Cussler declares. They include “novels of suspense, adventure tales, paranormal investigations, or even police procedurals.” Thrillers “push their readers just a little closer to the edge of their seats,” he says; “they cost their readers sleep, get carried to the grocery store to be read while standing in line [presumably, the readers and not the thriller are “standing in line”] and are held tightly until the last page.” Thrillers stay with readers after the last page has been read. These stories, Cussler contends, may “shock” or “cause” the “heart to skip a beat” or “make” one “laugh and flinch at the same time,”and, many times, they will be “read again in disbelief,” as readers seek “the clues” they “missed the first time around.”

Cussler also provides additional clues in the headnotes that he provides for each of the stories. They have “high stakes”; the time that is allowed the protagonist to sort things out and set things right is apt to be “short.” Situations, invariably, are intense. The storylines may be suggested or influenced by the stories' settings. A thriller might be based upon the “short step from respectable citizen to flat-out criminal,” wherein “the lead characters bear a shocking resemblance to people we might know—even to ourselves—pillars of society crumbling in an avalanche of bad decisions that seemed perfectly rational at the time.” Other thrillers are tales of revenge. Often, the action of such stories is based upon “current events.” A thriller may include “an intricate puzzle.” Some such stories spring from seedy, real-life counterparts of the characters they depict. Natural catastrophes are sometimes the culprits: “Mother Nature is as much of a threat as the killers” some characters encounter; they “must confront not only the harsh realities of their situation, but also the brutal conditions of their environment.” Occasionally, thrillers spring from the actual experiences of the writers who write them. The protagonists of thrillers may be amoral by society's standards, but they, nevertheless, usually live by “their own code of honor.” Other thrillers investigate their characters' “personal histories,” focusing upon what makes their characters tick or what motivates them to perform the dangerous feats they do. Humor is the wellspring of some thrillers. Sometimes, thrillers mix “history and science.” The action is often global in scope, and even in a world wherein science reigns, mysticism can coexist with empirical methods. Philosophical issues are not off limits to thrillers; some discuss such questions as to whether we are the masters of our fates or the fates' playthings. Politics, betrayal, dystopian futures, and patriotism can become the elements of a thriller that involves government intrigues and conspiracies. Thrillers also take their readers into the criminal underworld, showing them how hired killers view the world. Spies come in from the cold in many a thriller, and good guys protect the innocent. Romance—especially unrequited love—can set a thriller's plot in motion, and a woman scorned—well. . . . Villains include hit men, sociopaths, enemy agents, serial killers, rapists, and sadists.

Any story should start with a hook, and thrillers are no exception. These are a few from Thriller 2:

“A new weapon.”

The slim man in a conservative suit eased forward and lowered his voice. “Something terrible. And our sources are certain it will be used this coming Saturday morning. They're certain of that.”

“Four days,” said retired Colonel James J. Peterson, his voice grave. It was now 5:00 p. m. on Monday. (Deaver, Jeffrey. “The Weapon,” 16).

Bijoux Watson's body slipped underneath the muddy waters of the Brazos River without a sound, a mangled pile of flesh that had once been the biggest purveyor of black tar heroin in all east Texas (Hunsicker, Harry. “Iced,” 55).

Every time I think back on that night, I can see myself poised at that exact moment in time. I watch the story unfold—it's like watching a movie, you know?--and I wish to God I could relive that instant when I did the unthinkable (Stewart,. Mariah. “Justice Served,” 73).

What happened to Leon is a dirty shame (Stine, R. L., “Roomful of Witnesses,” 111).

“This is where they died?” (Neggers, Carla, “On the Run,” 169).

When the man he'd killed a year ago walked into the bar, Joe Dogan was surprised, So surprised that he fell off his stool (Light, Lawrence. “The Lamented,” 217).

“Give us the manuscript or we'll kill your wife” (Maleeny, Tim. “Suspension of Disbelief,” 271).

It's time to kill my husband. Izaan Bekkar. The forty-eighth president of the United States (Antrim, Kathleen. “Through a Veil Darkly,” 351).

Cussler identifies the key ingredients of the thriller. He provides twenty-three examples. There is no single formula for this type of story, but there are suggestions. Place a protagonist in an intense situation, perhaps in an isolated setting, with what little time remains before a catastrophic event fast running out, and see whether he or she can escape, avert the catastrophe, or otherwise save him- or herself and the day (and maybe the whole planet!) In the process, suggest something about human nature or, at least, a specific specimen of humanity and why life is important, especially when it is lived on the edge.

Nature and Nurture: Character and Setting as Destiny

copyright 2007 by Gary L. Pullman

Why did you throw the jack of hearts away?
It was the only card in the deck I had left to play. -- The Doors

During the O. J. Simpson trial, observers claimed that, on his defendant’s behalf, attorney Johnny Cochran played the “race card.” Dancing with the Stars critics said that, in an effort to endear herself to the show’s audience and judges, contestant Marie Osmond played the “sympathy card.” Historians claim that the cards that Wild Bill Hickock was playing, which contained aces and eights, comprise the “dead man’s hand,” because he was shot to death while gambling with them.

These allusions are based upon the old analogy that compares one’s personal attributes and assets to the hand that one is dealt at birth. Life, according to this view, is not just any game; it's a card game. It’s a gamble. The stakes may vary, but the goal is always the same: to play the cards one has been dealt to one’s best advantage in the hope of winning the pot.

Even before poker, the life = game equation was popular. The Tarot deck is based upon this notion, and, as a result, its devotees claim, the Tarot hand that one is dealt can foretell his or her future, or fortune.

Beowulf, a poem that is interesting for many reasons, shows us the same thing that a study of Greek mythology discloses: humans, like the gods themselves, were subject to the whims of fate. To paraphrase Alexander Pope, Zeus (or Beowulf) might propose, but it was the Fates (or fate) who disposed of the issues, or determined the outcome of the events, of the day. In the days of ancient Greece, the Fates, envisioned as three sisters, were the ones who decided how events would play out. In Beowulf, the Fates have become fate, an impersonal force, much as the Norse goddess Hel became the impersonal place, hell, in Christian belief. Nevertheless, in both the worlds of the ancient Greeks and of the medieval Norsemen, Geats included, it was not the gods or humans who had the final say as to how incidents or actions, including their own, would turn out. There was a power higher than theirs, to which their own wills were subject.

Beowulf was told and retold for centuries before it was finally committed to paper. The person who wrote it down for posterity was a Christian, and, upon the pagan folkways and beliefs evident in the poem, the scribe overlaid references to Christian faith and doctrine. As a result, there is an uneasy alliance between the pagan and the Christian world views that is incompatible and conflicting. Some may suppose that this duality of vision weakens the poem, but it may be argued that the juxtaposition of these two Weltanschauung, in fact, enriches the narrative. The poem shows what the Norse philosophy of life and social values were before their Christian conversion and what they were becoming during, and would be after, this conversion. For example, before, Beowulf attributed his victories over his foes to fate; afterward, he credits them to God’s will. This twofold attribution of success indicates that, gradually, the idea that it is an impersonal fate that determines the affairs of humans was being replaced by the belief that God’s will is the determinant of such outcomes. In other words, fate becomes God's will. The doctrine of predestination develops this idea with rigorous logic, making humans little more than automatons whose behavior consists of little more than actions that are programmed from the beginning--that is, from eternity--by the will of God.

In the pagan world, the cards one is dealt would have been said to have been dealt by the Fates or by fate. In the Christian world, it is God who deals the cards.

A person might be dealt any of the 22 Major Arcana cards or the 14 Minor Arcana cards of the Tarot deck. All of these cards signified and brought about particular things. Today, people don’t usually think of a person as having any particular set of cards of such a predetermined nature in the hands that fate or God deals to him or her. Instead, whatever personal attributes and assets a person has or accumulates are usually considered the cards that he or she has been dealt. Over time, the cards in a person’s hand may change as one is lost or another is acquired. Were we to apply this concept to Beowulf, we might say that his cards included courage, unusually great strength and stamina, martial prowess, longevity, wisdom, loyalty, compassion, great wealth, popularity, and kingship. When circumstances warranted his doing so, he might play one or more of these cards. In his fights with Grendel, Grendel’s mother, and the dragon, he played his courage, strength and stamina, and martial prowess cards; as king, he played his loyalty, compassion, and wisdom cards.

Human destiny is complex and impossible to know in advance. Life seems to be a gamble. We also sometimes do not know the full extent of our personal attributes and assets until we are, as it were, called upon by circumstances to use them. We are not always privy to every card in our hands; sometimes, some must be played from a face-down position. Luck (in pagan terms) or divine will (in Christian terms) has a role to play as well. By using such metaphors and analogies as life = gamble, life = game, and one’s personal attributes and assets = a hand of cards, we reduce these complex sets of incidents, circumstances, and actions to simpler, more understandable ideas. Whether any of these ideas is objectively true is perhaps unknowable, but they are, at least, true to one’s sense of how things are and of how things work. They seem to explain. They make sense to us emotionally, if not rationally.

What does all this have to do with character and setting? Writers play God (or fate) when they write stories. The writer is the one who deals the cards that the characters must play, giving or withholding this personal attribute or that individual asset. It was the writer--and the group of storytellers before him--who gave Beowulf his courage, unusually great strength and stamina, martial prowess, longevity, wisdom, loyalty, compassion, great wealth, popularity, and kingship, just as it was Charles Dickens, for example, who gave Ebenezer Scrooge his greed and stinginess, his callous disregard for others, and his capacities--at first unrealized--for compassion, sympathy, and love.

The cards that writers deal to their characters represent the genetic inheritance of these imaginary persons. But genetics is only one influence, as scientists remind us, that affects--and determines--behavior. We’re products of our environments as much as we are the products of our genes. Both nature and nurture make us who and what we are and who and what we become.

If the personal attributes and assets of the individual character represent his or her genetic inheritance, as it were, what represents the character’s environment? In fiction, the setting is the time, the place, and the cultural milieu into which the character is born. The setting may be past, present, or future. It may involve a tyranny, a theocracy, a monarchy, an oligarchy, or a democracy. It may be secular or religious. It may be amoral, moral, or immoral. It may be a universe or the microcosm of a total institution, such as a boarding school or a prison. It may be a metropolis or an island. It may be urban, suburban, or rural. It may be a rain forest or a desert, a castle or a shanty, this world or another planet in a galaxy far, far away; it may even be heaven or hell. Obviously, if a character were born into or lives in any one of these settings, his or her development would differ--in many cases, radically--from his or her development in another setting. Beowulf, both because of the cards he’s dealt and the time and place in which he lives, is a very different character than Ebenezer Scrooge!

By giving characters specific attributes and assets and by setting their lives in particular times, places, and cultural milieus, writers mimic the genetic and environmental aspects of human existence, providing their imaginary people with the gifts of nature and nurture that actual humans receive from evolution, geography, and culture. Whereas, for people, these gifts are likely to be seen as the effects of accident, luck, or grace, there’s no doubt as to who provides them to fictional characters, and they are given deliberately so that each character can fulfill his or her role in the drama the author has determined to create. The writer, depending upon one’s perspective, is, for his or her characters, fate or god.

Plausible Motivations

copyright 2007 by Gary L. Pullman

In life, people sometimes do things for no reason, just for the hell of it. In fiction, however, characters, like litigants in a courtroom, always have a reason--although not always a good reason--for doing what they do. When they undertake large-scale endeavors that require cooperative participation among many individuals, there's generally a correspondingly colossal motive to inspire such massive, purposeful interaction.

We've divided motives for characters' conduct into two broad categories and listed some motives that are plausible for actions among many people (or characters) operating in support of a common cause.

I. International, National, and Regional Scale

• Colonization
• Commission of genocide
• Conducting commerce and trade
• Conducting crime fighting and law enforcement activities
• Conducting diplomatic missions
• Conducting homesteading activities
• Conducting missionary activities
• Conducting scientific research
• Conducting search and rescue missions
• Exploration of new worlds or uncharted territory
• Freeing of an enslaved people
• Maintenance of prisons
• Mining
• Piracy
• Pursuit of the freedom to worship
• Showcasing of art and culture
• Waging of war

II. Community and Personal Scale

• Attending weddings and funerals
• Camping outdoors
• Conducting crime fighting and law enforcement activities
• Conducting home-improvement projects
• Conducting landscaping or community beautification projects
• Conducting political campaigns
• Courting; dating (Species)
• Educating oneself or one’s family; educating the local citizenry
• Engaging in sports
• Engaging in social protests
• Enjoying family vacations; traveling
• Entertaining or being entertained
• Fishing, hunting, or shopping
• Participating in children’s and family activities
• Partying
• Production of art and cultural artifacts
• Protecting one’s family
• Working to provide for one’s family
• Worshiping at a local church

In addition to such general motivations, some spurs to action are more apt to be found in stories that involve the fantastic and the bizarre, including horror fiction:

• Biological or viral contamination (Earthly or otherworldly); disease or plague
• Cryptozoology
• Demonic possession or other supernatural or paranormal intervention (including magic)
• Extraterrestrial intervention
• Genetic mutations
• Inter-dimensional travel
• Nuclear holocaust
• Paranormal influences
• Parasitism
• Psychosis
• Radiation poisoning
• Scientific experiments gone awry; unintended use of technology

Many more conventional (historical) reasons and causes are adapted to fantasy, horror, and science fiction as well, as when an extraterrestrial army attacks Earth, Earth’s scientists colonize another planet, mining operations are conducted on alien planets, other planets are converted into prisons, and so forth.

Horror Fiction: In Search of a Transfusion of New Blood

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Pullman

It would seem that horror fiction, based as it is upon the appearance and elimination or neutralization--or the attempted elimination or neutralization--of various threats, would be a permanent fixture of literature, that its place among narrative and dramatic works would be secure, that its life, as it were, would be as eternal as some of its paranormal or supernatural antagonists’ existences. Oddly, such may not be the case. Fans of horror fiction may, someday, have to find their chills and thrills elsewhere than in pages or on film footage that is devoted to the horror genre.

It’s not that the world itself is any less dangerous a place today than it was in times past; if anything, the world is, in some ways, more dangerous than it has ever been before. (In other ways, of course, it is far safer.) Plenty of various threats remain. The problem seems to be that the authors of short stories, novels, and screenplays continue to write about the same old monsters: beasts, demons and devils, ghosts, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, witches, zombies, and the like, or, when they do, rarely, experiment with something new, as M. Night Shyamalan did in The Happening, the experiment is frequently less than chilling and thrilling and is likely, in fact, to be a dud, as M. Night Shyamalan’s The Happening certainly is.

For a while, Stephen King, almost single-handedly, revitalized the horror genre by bringing ancient (and sometimes contemporary) horrors to modern, small-town America. Indeed, the townspeople of Castle Rock, Derry, Jerusalem’s Lot, and Chester’s Mill are themselves shown to be, in their own ways, as monstrous and threatening as any of the paranormal and supernatural threats that appear in King’s fiction. However, even innovation, vigorously applied, soon breeds clichés (and, in King’s particular case, tends to produce quite a bit of smug, condescending, and self-indulgent diatribes against Republicans, conservatives, and fundamentalists, to name a few of the author’s favorite targets, among the corpses that typically litter his literature).

Out with the old threats and in with the new seems to offer a solution to the tried and trite, but this solution poses a problem of its own: from whence are horror fiction’s new nightmares to come? There are but two general sources for threats: internal and external. Internal, or psychological, threats are apt to be derived from either reason gone wrong, which is to say madness, or from emotion gone awry, or hysteria. The wellsprings of external threats seem, at first glance, to be both more plentiful and more diverse, but, in fact, they are limited as well, being either social or natural (unless one includes the supernatural realm as a dimension of reality). With only two types of threat, the internal and the external, at their disposal, horror writers seem limited, indeed, as to the sources for things that go bump in the night. Monsters, after all, cannot (yet) be ordered from mail-order catalogues or bought from fiendish supply warehouses.

What horror writers can (and should) do is what writers of other genres of fiction do: expand their concerns to beyond that of simply the introduction of monsters or monstrous threats and include areas of concern to human beings as human beings, which is to say, to matters that pertain to ethics, aesthetics, ontology, epistemology, metaphysics, theology, history, science, politics, art, athletics, economics, and so forth. Instead of the monster’s being the story’s be-all and end-all, he, she, or it should be subordinate to the story’s human characters, who, too often, exist (but seldom live) as only the antagonists’ targets and victims. Although horror fiction authors treat of such matters in a superficial way at times, few of them make human concerns the primary consideration of their short stories, novels, and screenplays. Writers who do treat such concerns with the depth and complexity that these matters deserve may well find themselves among the celebrated few whose works are among the best narratives and dramas of any genre, horror or otherwise, including William Shakespeare s’ Hamlet or Macbeth, Dante’s Inferno, John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Charles Dickens’ “The Signal-man,” Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, H. G. Wells’ The Island of Dr. Moreau, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short stories, Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw and The Jolly Corner, Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque, William Faulkner’s “A Rose For Emily,” Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and The Birds. Moreover, and more importantly, horror fiction will be a much better genre and one that is well worth reading (or watching).