When I was in junior high school, and dad and I watched a horror movie about vampires. I don’t remember which one. What I do remember is my father, a goofy hippy, making a joke about hippy vampires.
Those essays didn’t start out as anything ambitious, either. At their core, they’re just primal screams.
When I was in the first grade, I was probably the only girl in my class who’d never gone rabbit hunting with her father.
Who would believe my stories about the south?
I bet many of you wouldn’t. I could write an entire memoir of horror stories, and most people would find it more believable if I filled them with imaginary demons.