Susantober

Jamie Lee Curits. If Susan every had a spirit animal, it might be her.

She's going to hate this.

She'll probably yell at me.

But I don't care.

Susan -- who has become a part of this blog in one form or another -- recently told me that she was interested in writing 31 posts in October.

You see, nobody should write about October and all the creepy things that come with it other than her, and I sincerely mean that.

I raved.

"Do it!"

Oct 1 came and went.

Today, I questioned her.

A few hours later, she wrote an opus about a cult classic called Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things. The 1972 film was directed by Bob Clark, who would later direct A Christmas Story and Porky's.

I'd never heard of it, in the same way Susan has never heard of The Stratton Story or Alibi Ike.

I'm almost ashamed to say I'm slightly a writer when I read Susan's stuff. Seriously, she worked in references to small TV's, 1-800-Flowers, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

But she's smarter about it than I am and I don't want to give anything away.

This is a writer who can create gracefully about opioid addiction, priest abuse, and leaving cars unlocked like it's no big deal. She does that literally every day while getting beaten down by her audience.

I see how each story -- each word -- wears her down.

I'm simply amazed by her.

Oh, she'll hate that I wrote any of this.

She'll sit with her phone in front of her and she'll start tapping...

"You didn't have to write that."

Erase...

"Why did you write that? You know how I hate flowery compliments."

Erase...

"Don't feel like you had to..."

Erase...

"Thank you."

She's as eloquent as there is. Every word means something.

As friends, I talk. She writes.

Literally, nobody has ever interested me in horror/goth/macabre until I met her.

Susan got me to care. Each of her novellas -- The Blacksmith, Jessie, Dirt, Sam (The Tales From the Graveyard Series) enraptured me. Suddenly, I did care.

I got so engrossed that she got me in one of the books. I mean, she got me. She got me good. That's literally all I can offer. You have to read it for yourself.

True story: I'd never seen Halloween. That's all she needed to hear. We watched it. She flinched. I never moved.

But it all made sense to me. The story composition. The 70s. The intelligence of it all. It was there in front of me.

I finally understood why she would play "Don't Fear the Reaper" and cringe every time I'd ask about "More cowbell."

She's most likely to show up in a Haddonfield High School or The House on Haunted Hill T-shirt. She's an expert. A pro.

So what I'm saying is: there's no better reporter, editor -- hell, journalist.

And she is horror/suspense/macabre, from her early days watching The 4:30 Movie on channel 7 on Staten Island. She sees it like I see hot sauce (awkward comparison alert): simply having heat doesn't mean it is good. Taste matters.

And that's Susan. Taste matters.

I wholeheartedly encourage you to read her each day in October (and any other time she writes on her blog), and every day in the Darien Times.

It's worth your time.