About
A Bit of Bio
My name is Sheila M. Merritt. My early years were spent in a beachy Southern California town where my mother ran an antiques and second-hand store. The shop was situated in our residence, taking up what probably was meant to be living space on the ground floor. On the same level of the house was the bathroom, kitchen, laundry area, and a bedroom. There were two other bedrooms upstairs. My mother was very business oriented and enjoyed chatting with the arty clientele who included dancers, actors, decorators, and the like. I once came home from school to find Mom entertaining a group of aviatrixes at the kitchen table. Her shop provided a means to connect to an array of colorful people, and to temporarily get away from her late-in-life precocious and exasperating young daughter. As much as I taxed her patience, she broke my heart when she had the avocado trees and surrounding vegetation in our backyard torn out as the prelude of asphalting the area for customer parking.
When she became severely ill shortly after I started middle school, we moved inland to a more conventional abode in a residential middle-class neighborhood. I was shattered to find that my new school had a strict dress code. During my high school years, however, there was a shift in the local demographics. It was rather amazing to witness firsthand white flight. A veritable crash course in a clash of cultures. Quite an education.
My higher education began at USC, which I attended for two years. I then transferred to (sacrilege!) crosstown rival UCLA where I graduated with a degree in History. But don’t ask me about significant dates or other historical facts. I was in an interdisciplinary program under the umbrella of “Cultural and Intellectual Modern History” that allowed me to emphasize the study of literature and other arts. It was an utterly worthless degree in terms of practicality, but as a dilettante I was able to wittily display my erudition during conversations at social events, especially after a few drinks.
After my first overseas trip, I became engaged to the patient, persevering person who I married. We’ve been together a very long time. And I’m happy to report that he remains patient and persevering. He’s a rational, linear thinker. Which nicely offsets my loopy and emotional disposition. And besides, everyone knows that the secret to a solid marriage is having the same taste in furniture. We do.
The necessity of the spouse’s corporate relocation to Boulder, Colorado broadened my horizons. There, for the first time, I learned to shovel snow and be awed by mountains rather than the ocean. It was in this environment that I felt more of a need for involvement in the horror field and in my first of five years in Boulder I discovered a fledgling genre publication that accepted me as a writer. I was only featured in a handful of issues in the magazine’s short run, but it was a terrific experience. After that publication shut down, and with some cred under my belt, I was able to get other writing gigs in horror magazines and online sites. Most of them, like the first, have shuttered and there’s no value in naming them. Instead, I’ll list the three that I’ve contributed to that are still active: Hellnotes, Diabolique, and Scream.
In starting this website, it’s my hope that I can continue to honor horror by writing thoughtful and in-depth reviews and articles. And maybe provide some insights and laughs along the way.
Half a Lifetime in Horror
It’s the sort of a revelation that occurs on a landmark birthday after reflecting on time passing and what stays current. I’ve written articles and reviews in the horror genre for what amounts to half my life. Regrets? Yeah, I’ve had a few. But overall, the narcotic high kept me stimulated even during the periods when I felt close to an overdose. Armchair psychologists might suggest that the attraction is akin to a youthful love affair. Horror is rather illicit by nature and the young are particularly drawn to the illicit, seduced by the essence of the forbidden that afflicts most of us enamored of horror. It’s like dating the bastard child-outcast-rebel and, oh man IT WAS GOOD.
Now I’m older and (hopefully) wiser enough to embrace my longtime love and hold it close well after the honeymoon phase has dissipated. A mature romance can be both comfortable and comforting. And the embers still burn.