I'll send the wolves that hunt at night, charging through the shadows with a thunderous whisper, tickling the air with fetid breath that smells of death. Teeth glint like steel in the moonlight, howls calling for blood. They hunt within the dark, blackish coats reflecting hell fire. One bite and you're forever theirs, forever mine. Don't fight the wolves, give in to the sinful desire. I am the wolf. I am Christian Jensen.
posed the question on Facebook earlier: What
would you like to read about on my blog. So here you go Jennifer Lopez,
this is why I became a writer.
easiest answer to this question, and the one I’ll give first, is that I became a
writer because I had to. It’s just something that’s always been inside of me, a
compulsion to put ideas to paper and tell a story. Ever since I was old enough
to read I’ve wanted to be an author. I’ve told stories for as long as I could
remember, standing in front of my class in grammar school and making things up
as I went along, or hanging out with my friends at the park or on camping trips
and telling one ghost story or another. Most of those tales were recanted from
books, but I twisted them, making them mine and adding characters. I loved
scaring people, creating nightmares and putting vivid images in their minds. So
yeah, the easy answer is that I just kind of had to be a writer. It’s who I am,
what I do, and what I love.
harder answer, and the one that’s much more detailed, starts back when I was
around 8 years old. My father was a drunk, and he’d come home more times than
not hammered off his ass. There would inevitably be some big fight with my
mother that, more times than not, ended with my drunken father leaving the
house with a flurry of curse words and slamming doors. I couldn’t put on music
to mask the sounds of the fighting and threats because if he heard that I was
awake he’d come into my room. I didn’t own headphones and there was no money to
buy any, and to survive I had to pretend I was asleep. So no TV, no music, no
noise of any kind.
left me with books. I would grab something, climb under my bed, and read by
flashlight. I’d lose myself in the worlds created by others, finding solace in
their words and safety in the pages. Once my father left I’d climb back into
bed and wait for my mother to come crying. I always hated that part the most,
trying to comfort her when I was terrified myself. I knew nothing would be okay
but I couldn’t let her know that. After she left I’d lay in bed and think about
the story I had read before, changing it around and making it my own. I’d
invent new stories based on what I read and get lost in them.
day fate handed me a strange curveball. I loved horror, even as a little kid. I
watched slasher movies on TV before dear old drunken dad came home. I’d rent
them from the video store when my mother had the extra three dollars. I liked
the idea of something that wasn’t my father scaring the shit out of me. Oddly
enough it felt like I could defend myself against Freddy Kruger or Jason
Vorhees more proficiently than I could protect myself from dad. It was during
this period, when I was around eight years old and still trapped by the horrors
at home, that I found a copy of Stephen King’s Pet Semetary. My cousin was
going to sell it in a garage sale, but he gave it to me instead. It wasn’t
kindness that enabled that gift, it was a black sense of humor. He thought the
book would scare me to death and leave me scarred for life. Instead it got this
whole train running.
read the book. I was eight years old, working my way through an adult novel,
one of the scariest written at the time. I poured over the pages, reading and
re-reading it until I grasped it all. Never before had the words of someone
resonated with me so clearly, the world Stephen King painted in my head crystal
clear and terrifying as hell. Of course I couldn’t grasp the real horror of a
parent losing their child, but to me Gage was just a dead kid doing horrible
things, things I could actually fight and survive. I wondered what my father would
do if I died. Would he bring me to tainted ground in the hopes of resurrecting
me, or would he just sit in the bar like he did every night and bitch about my
death like it was an inconvenience? To this day I would like to think the
former, but know the latter.
King was the game changer. He gave me a way out of the miserable fucking life I
lived. He was rich and successful. He was just as sick and twisted as I was,
and yet he made a living off the darkness inside of him. It made a weird kind
of sense to me. I loved to read. I loved to tell stories. I loved to create,
write, and draw. I had a darkness inside of me that needed to get out. What
better way to purge the demons from your soul than to inflict them on others? I
could unleash the horror of my life on the world at large and in doing so, just
maybe, heal some of my own hurt.
I started to write. I used an old typewriter my aunt had left behind. I spent
time every day after school working on short stories and trying my hand at
longer pieces. They all sucked, but each one got a little better. I showed them
to my friends and family. I handed them in as writing assignments. I asked my
teachers for advice and criticism. I was never shy about what I wrote or the
fact that I wrote. I was never embarrassed to hand my work off to someone
because it always just felt right.
the years my hobbies changed, my interests matured, and my life grew more
complicated. My parents got divorced. My father moved to North Carolina where
he died drunk and alone about five years ago. My mother got remarried and had a
family she could be proud of, which apparently didn’t include me. I got my own
apartment, then my own house. I moved from job to job. Most of the things in my
life changed, but writing has always been a part of it, one of the biggest and
most important parts. It’s the only dream that never died, the one thing I have
always been good at. The one thing I will always be proudest of.
hasn’t made me rich like Stephen King. It hasn’t paid me enough to make a
living…yet. But with every word I write I know I’m getting closer to that
dream. Someday soon I’ll be making a living off my words, and more and more people
will get to read them. And maybe someday, hopefully, those words will inspire a
broken child and help them find their way through the darkness.