Blog 78 - Stage Fright

Blog 78 - Stage Fright

October 2025

Well, I suppose I ought to acknowledge it, it is October after all. Halloween is just around the corner and as a writer, it’s when thoughts naturally turn to horror. But is it just me, or has that genre been done to death? (Pun intended, of course!). Last year – wow, have I been writing this blog that long? – I was ready to embrace the genre, ready to indulge my distant teenage craving for all things macabre. And if I’m honest, I enjoyed writing a couple of short stories with a gruesome twist. But this year… not so much. It seems a bit… juvenile, for want of a better phrase. I’ve moved on as a writer.
Don’t get me wrong, I still love a good B-movie monster mash or a classic Gothic tale involving a creaking manor and a conveniently placed thunderstorm. There’s a comforting familiarity with those images, a sort of nostalgic charm that can still send a delightful shiver down the spine. But lately, my creative gears have been grinding in a slightly different direction.
You see, now that I’ve started to explore the art of playwriting, my focus has shifted. The visceral shock, the explicitly gory details – they’ve been nudged aside, at least for now. Instead, I’m finding myself utterly captivated by the atmosphere that builds around a story. What will the audience see? What will they hear? How will the light illuminate the dust motes dancing in a shaft of moonlight, or will they cast long, menacing shadows across a bare stage? What are the characters saying, yes, but more importantly, what are they doing? Every gesture, every pause, every subtle shift in their posture has become incredibly significant.
It’s all about showing the audience, not telling them. This is a fundamental shift, a complete re-wiring of my writing brain. In novels and short stories, you have the luxury of an inner monologue, of explicit descriptions of fear or dread. You can paint a picture in the reader’s mind with words alone. On stage, however, that subtlety is amplified. A character’s racing heartbeat isn't described on the page; it’s conveyed through their hurried breaths, their darting eyes, the way they grip the edge of a table. The building tension isn't articulated; it’s felt in the pregnant silences, the ominous creak of a floorboard, the growing unease that hums in the air.
This new approach feels like learning a new language, albeit one I’m already fluent in, just with a different accent. Instead of conjuring imaginary monsters in the reader’s mind’s eye, I’m now tasked with creating a tangible sense of unease within the physical space of a theatre. It’s about crafting suspense through sensory experience, using the audience’s imagination as a collaborator, letting them fill in the blanks that the playwright intentionally leaves.
So, while the ghosts and ghouls of traditional horror are, for me at least, taking a backseat this October, my creative well isn’t dry. It’s simply overflowing with a different kind of thrill. I’m exploring the horror of the unspoken, the terror of the perceived, the dread that creeps in when the lights dim and the real drama begins. It’s a more nuanced, perhaps more sophisticated kind of fear, and frankly, it’s utterly exhilarating. This year, the horror I’m most interested in isn’t about what leaps out from the shadows, but what the shadows themselves might be hiding. This shift in focus has been incredibly liberating. It’s forced me to think beyond the obvious, to delve into the subtext of every line, every prop, every beat of silence. It’s like being given a new set of tools for an old craft. Instead of a sledgehammer to drive home the horror, I’m now wielding a set of surgeon’s instruments, meticulously dissecting moments to maximize their psychological impact. The fear isn't just about a monster in the closet; it's about the monster we suspect is there, or worse, the monster within the characters themselves, slowly, inevitably, revealing its true face.
This isn’t to say that playwriting is the only way to achieve this kind of nuanced horror. Far from it! Stephen King and James Herbert (and many others) have been masterfully crafting psychological thrillers and stories of creeping dread for decades. But for me, in this phase of my writing journey, the constraints and demands of the stage have illuminated a path to a different kind of terror – one that feels more mature, more challenging, and ultimately, more rewarding to create.
So, yes, it's October. And yes, my mind is still turning to things that go bump in the night. But these days, those bumps aren’t necessarily from a zombie’s lumbering gait or a vampire’s sudden appearance. It’s a horror that creeps under the skin and settles in the quiet corners of your mind, long after the curtain has fallen and the house lights have come up. And honestly? That kind of horror… that’s the stuff of nightmares I can’t wait to write. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m growing up as a writer, or perhaps it’s just a new way to enjoy the delicious chill of the season. Either way, this Halloween, my monsters are less about fangs and more about physical awareness. Who needs to write about a haunted house when you can create one on the stage? Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear a floorboard creaking… or was that just my imagination?