The Horror Genre and Shadow Work

Engaging with the Ugly

Photo by David Werbrouck on Unsplash

A big question I wrestle with on my self-healing journey revolves around my relationship with the horror genre. I’ve been a fan of horror for as long as I can remember. I’ve written too many horror stories to count, some of which you can read in the archives, while others are available at the book places and in my store. Most of my social circle consists of fans and fellow creators. I love horror’s aesthetics and enjoy every aspect of it from the spooky and cozy to the transgressive and everything in between (provided that it’s done well). My book Snow Angels won the Splatterpunk Award for Best Novella, and I’ve had newer writers say that they see me as a mentor.

At the same time, the horror genre explores and sometimes glorifies the darker aspects of life. It focuses on death, fear, cruelty, and the imaginary creatures that often symbolize these very things. So, on the surface, what use does someone who is seeking to better themselves have for horror?

Quite a lot, it turns out.

The concept of integrating one’s shadow to become a more complete version of themselves has reemerged in recent years thanks to TikTok. From what I can see, the renewed interest in this idea traces to the publication of The Shadow Work Journal, a book that encourages you to explore your damage, your dark thoughts, and the things that hold you back in a frank, guided-journal type of way. The idea is that by doing this you become a better version of yourself—much like the concept of gaining power over a demon by knowing its name, this is a “name-to-tame” approach to our psychological wounds and our baser tendencies.

I truly believe that horror fans (be they readers or cinephiles) and horror creators do this all the time, albeit not always intentionally or consciously. While there’s nothing wrong with engaging with the genre on a purely surface level, most of the people I know get something more out of it.

Because writing about this topic intimidates me, I tagged in some friends and writers who can add tremendous value to this discussion. I asked three fellow authors what it means to them when I say, “Engaging with the horror genre is shadow work.”

Cynthia “Cina” Pelayo is an author who I feel needs no introduction, but for the uninitiated, she’s a Bram Stoker Award and International Latino Book Award-winning author and poet. She holds a Master of Fine Arts in Writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is pursuing a PhD in English. She’s also an adherent of Positive Psychology and has taught workshops on it and how it relates to writing.

Here’s what she had to say when I reached out to her with my question:

Per Carl Jung, the shadow is that unconscious part of us. We have our conscious (active) and our subconscious (background programming running). Now, with our subconscious, guess what? It's always on. It's been recording every single thing you've ever heard and experienced since you were born. Aspects of our shadow are these parts of ourselves that we have repressed, for a number of reasons. Now, there are people who have been able to integrate that shadow self with their conscious self to create what Jung calls the Integrated Self, but those are few and far between - because people are going to people and blame everyone else for their problems, and very often will not confront themselves with the single strongest question we could ask ourselves "What did I do to contribute to this situation?"

What happens with most people is they navigate the world as their conscious self, but there's always this subconscious self - their shadow, with them.

With horror, it could be argued that many people come to this genre or write in this genre because they are exploring aspects of that shadow self, but that's also a controversial stance, and why is that? Well, historically there are people who say that people who write horror are unwell, or have aspects of themselves that, if given the right circumstances in the real world, would act out deviancy. I'm firmly not going to say either or, because I don't like making blanket statements in this vein, and I will just allow people to explore these concepts on their own.

I think ultimately, the shadow self is an aspect many people do not want to face, and they really need to. We need to confront these uncomfortable feelings, traumas, and subconscious programming we've had installed since birth.

Now, what happens when we don't confront our shadow selves in our lifetime? Well, we become a terror to everyone around us and self-sabotage. People who ignore the shadow self may have repressed anger, guilt, shame that may surface in destructive ways, like that self-sabotage I mentioned, such as destroying friendships, relationships, being reactive and so on. Does writing horror allow us to explore these things, like anger, guilt, shame, destruction ... well, most certainly.

This was an in-depth, nuanced, and well-thought-out answer. If you’re familiar with Cina or her work, you should know to expect nothing less. I want to highlight a couple of things she said. The question posed at the end of her first paragraph is a vital one, and it’s worth pointing out that it isn’t suggesting we should blame ourselves. It’s less about taking accountability for what happened—things outside of our control happen to us all the time, especially if we’re children or vulnerable in some other way—and more about figuring out how to respond in subsequent seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, etc.

And how often in horror are the events that unfold the result of unresolved grief, unhealed trauma, misplaced rage. “Jason should’ve been watched every minute! He was . . . He wasn’t a very good swimmer.” In Friday the 13th, Pamela Voorhees had all this unaddressed damage around the death of her son, a trauma she relived every time someone decided to try reopening Camp Crystal Lake, and eventually, she had a psychotic break and carried out the murders that launched a movie franchise. Examples like this are why I get a bit miffed when people on both sides of the argument act like the genre grew a conscience in 2017 and that everything made before then was pure schlock. I’ve written before about schlock having its place, but I do want to stress that many horror creators cared about psychological, social, and political issues long before the mid-2010s, and I’m not just talking about George Romero or The Twilight Zone.

I also want to applaud Cina for not making a blanket statement regarding the argument that horror writers are unwell or would act out their deviance under the right circumstances. I see this argument made far too often (usually on TikTok or Reddit), and it never fails to set my blood to a boil. People can have this stuff swirling around in them and still be well-adjusted. I would even argue that knowing that you have this in you will make you less likely indulge it in a harmful way. There are exceptions, of course, but there are bad actors everywhere. The horror community has them, but so does the romance, fantasy, comedy, and science fiction communities. To make a blanket statement on this would be a misstep, so I appreciate Cina acknowledging the nuance of this.

Definitely check out her work if you haven’t yet.

I also asked Grant Wamack, author of Bullet Tooth and the newly released The Scarecrows Will Watch Over Us, to weigh in. He said:

In psychology, they say we have a shadow—all the repressed parts of ourself. So I feel like sometimes this might come out in fiction because we repress a lot of dark thoughts and such. So in a way, I think it helps integrate some parts of our shadow if that makes sense

I like this response because when we’re writing—and I mean when we’re really grooving—we tend to enter a flow state. We’re (to paraphrase Joe Lansdale) writing like everyone we know is dead. All that ugly, unresolved shit bubbles up from the subconscious, spills onto the page, onto the screen, onto the canvas, into the recording interface. For a moment, you feel like you can breathe. It’s akin to a mental purge, an emotional detox, a spiritual cleanse. And it should: many, if not all aspects, of our shadow come from outside ourselves, from people who harmed us, from bad situations, from living in a topsy-turvy and often unkind world.

This clarity happens to those who consume horror as well. Much like getting a feeling of relief that comes from crying over a cheesy romance or laughing at a screwball comedy, something similar happens when we get to experience the unsafe in a safe way. Take those Terrifier movies, for example, the exploits of the nonverbal, homicidally maniacal Art the Clown. Having him only communicate with his face, body language, and acts of violence is a stroke of genius in that really gets at what I’m talking about here. The thing about the shadow and the elements contained within is that it is often inexpressible with common language. Images and sounds articulate what we cannot say, which is why writers of fiction are discouraged from telling instead of showing. The horror genre’s innovations of the 70s, 80s, and 90s are less prevalent, but what we are seeing is an era of distillation, a purification of form.

Lastly, I reached out to Clare Castleberry, author of Azalea House, Dark Feminine Energy, and Journeys Through Fear.

I think as horror writers, we're more aware of the power of the subconscious mind and how it shows us signs and symbols of things we need to work on, prepare for, or accept. Those signs often appear in odd or disturbing ways, via dreams or even paranormal events

This was the answer I was hoping for from Clare. She went on to specifically reference last week’s post about my dream-within-a-dream and how that sounded like an example of this from my life. I especially appreciate that she didn’t discount the possibility of the paranormal—Jung sure as hell didn’t—and if you follow her here (you should!), you know this response is very on-brand for her.

Horror creators (perhaps SF, fantasy, bizarro, and magical realism writers as well) are definitely more in tune with the subconscious because we rely heavily on it for our imagery and themes. Horror isn’t the genre of the hero’s journey. Its stories don’t see the “belly of the whale” as a mere pit stop on a mythical quest for some sword-wielding paladin. Rather, it asks you to stay down in the dark for a bit.

Let your eyes adjust.

Listen to what the creatures that dwell there have to say for themselves.

Linger.

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Big thanks to Cina, Grant, and Clare for weighing in on this topic and helping me articulate what I wanted to say. I don’t think I could’ve done it without them.

Thanks also to all of you for taking the time to read this post. This is my 150th post on Substack. I didn’t even realize this until I prepared to hit publish, so that’s crazy! I can hardly believe I’ve kept up with this for so long, and I’m even more humbled by the fact that so many of you keep showing up for me.

Lastly, my book Digital Darkness reached #10 in Cosmic and Eldritch Horror on Amazon, so I appreciate those of you who picked it up. I should have signed copies in stock soon, but you can place an order on the store in the meantime, and I’ll ship them out once I have them in hand.