SO … I thought I’d be watching The Walking Dead TV series tonight. I really did. I’ve been waiting for it with grabby hands and shining eyes since I first heard they were adapting the graphic novel series. I LOVE the Walking Dead graphic novels. Robert Kirkman’s writing amazes and delights me with every issue. Uncompromising, honest, gritty and tradgic, it’s got everything I love in writing - Plus Zombies. There hasn’t been anything like this for me in years. I’m a die hard fan. Team that with Frank Darbond and zooowee… I’m there man.
Well … I was there.
You know what I forgot? I forgot that Zombie movies give me nightmares. Ahuh, cowering, puking, shivering in the corner nightmares. I’ve had them on and off for years. They always involve me running, tear soaked and desperate, through a barren countryside/endless corridors of a stately home. They always end with me crouched in a corner/against a drystone wall with one of my kids and a hammer while hoards of zombies close in.
Me, my kid* and a hammer. Yeah. Lovely.
Guess what I woke from this morning: Starey-eyed, heart-rabbiting, cold-sweat-drenched, still clutching the imaginary hammer in one hand and shielding my kids eyes with the other?
Yeah. Reading the graphic-novels doesn’t do this to me. Writing my own undead fiction doesn’t do it to me. I actually don’t think I can face the TV show. I really don’t. But I still want to see it.
* and they’re always a small child in the dream - despite them being big bruisers of human beings at this stage, well able to combat a zombie on their own.