The first thing I can remember writing was a short story that began, “It was a dark and stormy night.” I was in grade four at the time, and my father helped me write it. The story was of a haunted house, visited by a girl (myself) on Hallowe’en night.
I wonder if it was from dear ol’ Dad that I inherited the shadow that, much of the time, permeates my stories. He loved a good twist. Whether or not my father is responsible I’ll never really know. He died shortly after I reached the tender age of fourteen years.
My fiction is dictated greatly by my emotional state and yet, despite the fact that I sometimes write horror, I rarely feel murderous. Where that particular genre comes from–what primal force guides it–is anybody’s guess.
And so I leave you with the best and the worst of what it means to be human. My characters come from deep inside and from the psychology I observe in others. I am always observing.
To my father, Leonard Charles Hill, may you rest in peace.