I was 9 years old when my parents took me to the drive-ins to see George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. I am convinced that no other genre in film changes you like horror. Zombies were real now and right outside my window at night. I was hooked and my imagination was shaped by movies like The Thing, Murder in the Rue Morgue, Them, Navy versus the Night Monsters, and The Brain that wouldn’t Die. I wrote my first short story, in pencil, when I was 12. It was entitled “The Gunner,” about a post-apocalyptic monster that terrorized the small group of survivors. I never showed it to anyone.

I was not born into an environment that encouraged the arts. I was born into a hard-working Italian family that valued grit and dirt on their hands. My father is still the hardest working man I know, at age 87. My grandmother was the toughest person I have ever l known. Needless to say, they would not be impressed with anything on paper. My mother often referred to me a philosopher because I occasionally shared my deep views on life.

If ever there was a road paved with obstacles, it would be the road I traveled that led me to writing. My short stories and poetry are metaphors for the mess of a life that I created for myself. My first wife taught me that love is conditional. My second wife taught me that evil never dies, it just changes form. My girlfriend of the past 14 years taught me that I was meant to live alone.

I went to work right out of high school and spent 45 years of my life in hard, physical labor. That taught me to ignore pain and get the job done. A tough exterior with the heart of a poet is one of life’s greatest conflicts. One that I navigate daily.

I lost my mother and son both to cancer, within a few years of each other. I lost myself in the process, becoming a fully functioning alcoholic. The time spent engulfed in rage, self-loathing and guilt taught me to use my writing as therapy.

There you have it, my horribly scarred and busted up hands, loaded with callouses are now tasked with creating art. What I’ve learned in my time on this earth is that true horror is what one human being can do to another. All family is not blood, and all blood is not family. Whatever doesn’t kill you, doesn’t make you stronger, it makes you angry and sad. The road less traveled is littered with people like me. My mistakes are not a life sentence; they are a source of direction. I am no longer interested in pushing the stone up the hill. I crave peace over chaos, and it seems I can only achieve that alone.

Hope this is helpful

Sincerely,

Dave Bongianino