A guestpost by the lovely Lori R Lopez
I'd like to thank Lori for whipping up this guestpost for my blog. She is a very talented author and a wonderful human being. I now turn my blog over to her for the day.
Let’s Dance
Lori R. Lopez
I don’t know about you, but I could never be a surgeon. I would upchuck on the poor patient. Right before fainting. Heck, I’m too nervous to drive, imagining all of the lives I might take out. Oh, once upon a time I passed the driving test in a surge of competence. They mailed me a card with my picture and name on it and said I could legally operate a motor vehicle. Cue the JAWS Theme. Were they out of their minds? They must have been. I am the last person you want behind the wheel, unless it’s a go-cart. Make that a golf cart. Okay, maybe not the last person. I guess there are worse candidates. Not many. My mind tends to wander. I am too nervous and tense — I have been most of my life, just ask my dentist. And I am not mechanical. Nor am I one of those “capable” people. Oh, I might be for moments. But in the long run, forget it. I can panic and have terrible reflexes. I can shake. My vision can unfocus. I might get a nervous itch or twitch. So now you know. If you see me coming, even if I’m only walking, to be safe you should probably run. Not for your sake, for mine. I tend to be reserved, as shy as a Bigfoot with two left feet.
Am I exaggerating? Sure, let’s go with that. I can pretend to be fine, even dandy. But don’t believe it for an instant!
By the way, I am also a horror writer.
Say what?
I know, I know, I sound like the last person you would expect to be a horror writer. Right? However, and I stress the word however, I am. And furthermore, I happen to be female. A rather freakish, peculiar, quirky, discombobulated female . . . yet a female just the same! And some readers actually think I’m a good horror writer. (All right, a precious few think I’m great. Quite a few think I’m bad. In a bad way. But who’s counting? You there, quit counting!) So, um, anyway, if I can scare somebody’s toenails off — that’s an expression, isn’t it? — me, in all of my quaking womanly introverted social-ineptitude, the rest of these chicks who are an awful lot tougher than me can certainly write up a frightapalooza. Think about that, all of you Doubting Thomases or whatever your names are who think that women cannot give birth to Horror. And Science Fiction. And Fantasy. And whatever we darn well feel like creating. It doesn’t matter if we Waltz or Watusi, cook or don’t cook, know how to sew curtains or stitch together body parts, wear a skirt or pants or hot-pants. It isn’t an issue whether we are strong or weak, tall or short, long-haired or purple-bobbed . . . It is our minds, our imaginations, what is inside of us needing to burst out and rampage that determines if we can or cannot rival guys to write Horror. And yes, we absolutely can. Some of the very best Horror!
It seems so obvious to me that I can’t believe there would be any question. What is the greatest horror story of all time? In my opinion, the title that stands out and has since I was a little girl is Frankenstein. It’s the one I most strongly connect with the roots of my lifelong fascination for the gruesome, the dark and morbid. And you know what? I bet I’m not alone. You know what else? It was written by a girl.
Now aren’t you slapping your foreheads silly, you good-old-boy horror and sci-fi geeks, wondering how you could possibly have ignored the works of us females? Or thought you were, when you were really the devoted fans of a — gasp — woman writer? Anyone foolish enough to think that males have a monopoly on creating superlative tales of terror and science deserves the Rubber Ducky Award for, squeak-squeak, soapsuds for brains! That’s right, I said it. You’re a bunch of bubbleheads! And once the bubbles pop, all that’s left is air.
Oh yeah. I’m ready to Rumba. Me, the Jitter Bug. Let’s dance. I say we show these guys who only read and respect other guys that their attitude isn’t going to cut it anymore. We refuse to be overlooked, passed up, unlisted, pushed aside. It isn’t that time of the month. It isn’t even that time of the year. We expect to be considered equal every day of every month. It’s a brand new world. Wake up and smell the decaying flesh, the perspiration of fear. We are Woman, and we are here. Deal with it. Remember, your mother is a woman. Your wife or girlfriend. Your daughter. Would you want them to be treated as if they don’t exist, as if they don’t rate? Do you see them as invisible? Men and women, we’re not that different. Some of us love heroes. Some of us love sports. And some of us love Horror.
Lori R. Lopez
I don’t know about you, but I could never be a surgeon. I would upchuck on the poor patient. Right before fainting. Heck, I’m too nervous to drive, imagining all of the lives I might take out. Oh, once upon a time I passed the driving test in a surge of competence. They mailed me a card with my picture and name on it and said I could legally operate a motor vehicle. Cue the JAWS Theme. Were they out of their minds? They must have been. I am the last person you want behind the wheel, unless it’s a go-cart. Make that a golf cart. Okay, maybe not the last person. I guess there are worse candidates. Not many. My mind tends to wander. I am too nervous and tense — I have been most of my life, just ask my dentist. And I am not mechanical. Nor am I one of those “capable” people. Oh, I might be for moments. But in the long run, forget it. I can panic and have terrible reflexes. I can shake. My vision can unfocus. I might get a nervous itch or twitch. So now you know. If you see me coming, even if I’m only walking, to be safe you should probably run. Not for your sake, for mine. I tend to be reserved, as shy as a Bigfoot with two left feet.
Am I exaggerating? Sure, let’s go with that. I can pretend to be fine, even dandy. But don’t believe it for an instant!
By the way, I am also a horror writer.
Say what?
I know, I know, I sound like the last person you would expect to be a horror writer. Right? However, and I stress the word however, I am. And furthermore, I happen to be female. A rather freakish, peculiar, quirky, discombobulated female . . . yet a female just the same! And some readers actually think I’m a good horror writer. (All right, a precious few think I’m great. Quite a few think I’m bad. In a bad way. But who’s counting? You there, quit counting!) So, um, anyway, if I can scare somebody’s toenails off — that’s an expression, isn’t it? — me, in all of my quaking womanly introverted social-ineptitude, the rest of these chicks who are an awful lot tougher than me can certainly write up a frightapalooza. Think about that, all of you Doubting Thomases or whatever your names are who think that women cannot give birth to Horror. And Science Fiction. And Fantasy. And whatever we darn well feel like creating. It doesn’t matter if we Waltz or Watusi, cook or don’t cook, know how to sew curtains or stitch together body parts, wear a skirt or pants or hot-pants. It isn’t an issue whether we are strong or weak, tall or short, long-haired or purple-bobbed . . . It is our minds, our imaginations, what is inside of us needing to burst out and rampage that determines if we can or cannot rival guys to write Horror. And yes, we absolutely can. Some of the very best Horror!
It seems so obvious to me that I can’t believe there would be any question. What is the greatest horror story of all time? In my opinion, the title that stands out and has since I was a little girl is Frankenstein. It’s the one I most strongly connect with the roots of my lifelong fascination for the gruesome, the dark and morbid. And you know what? I bet I’m not alone. You know what else? It was written by a girl.
Now aren’t you slapping your foreheads silly, you good-old-boy horror and sci-fi geeks, wondering how you could possibly have ignored the works of us females? Or thought you were, when you were really the devoted fans of a — gasp — woman writer? Anyone foolish enough to think that males have a monopoly on creating superlative tales of terror and science deserves the Rubber Ducky Award for, squeak-squeak, soapsuds for brains! That’s right, I said it. You’re a bunch of bubbleheads! And once the bubbles pop, all that’s left is air.
Oh yeah. I’m ready to Rumba. Me, the Jitter Bug. Let’s dance. I say we show these guys who only read and respect other guys that their attitude isn’t going to cut it anymore. We refuse to be overlooked, passed up, unlisted, pushed aside. It isn’t that time of the month. It isn’t even that time of the year. We expect to be considered equal every day of every month. It’s a brand new world. Wake up and smell the decaying flesh, the perspiration of fear. We are Woman, and we are here. Deal with it. Remember, your mother is a woman. Your wife or girlfriend. Your daughter. Would you want them to be treated as if they don’t exist, as if they don’t rate? Do you see them as invisible? Men and women, we’re not that different. Some of us love heroes. Some of us love sports. And some of us love Horror.
You can find Lori on Amazon at : http://www.amazon.com/Lori-R.-Lopez/e/B003WJFUN8
On Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/lorirlopez.author
Or at her website: www.FairyFlyEntertainment.com
