Paul Tremblay’s Horror Movie

 I’ve just finished Paul Tremblay’s Horror Movie and it’s one of those books that lingers. Not in the sense of jump scares or gore, but in the way it seeps into your head and quietly unsettles you long after you’ve put it down.

The premise is simple on the surface but slippery underneath: back in the late 1990s, a group of young filmmakers come together to make a low-budget horror movie. They’ve got ambition, energy, and a kind of reckless belief that they can make something unforgettable. And they do—but not for the reasons they intended. The film never truly gets released, only whispered about in underground circles, and what happened during production leaves scars that the cast and crew carry for decades.

The book picks up years later, when one of the surviving actors finds himself being interviewed, asked to revisit the past. From there, Tremblay shifts us back and forth—between the chaotic shoot days of the film, with all the tensions and strange occurrences piling up, and the present, where the survivors are left to reckon with what it all meant. I really enjoyed this alternating structure. At one point you’re caught up in the raw energy of these kids trying to make art, and the next you’re in the now, staring at the wreckage and wondering what broke these people.

What makes it so compelling is how ordinary it begins. It’s not about vampires or haunted houses. It’s about the process of making a film, with all its clashing egos, bad decisions, and flashes of brilliance. But slowly—so slowly—you start to notice the cracks. A scene goes too far. Someone begins to act strangely. And then the unease ratchets up another notch. Tremblay builds dread in the same way The Ring does (still one of my favourite horror films). It’s a slow burn, but it keeps climbing, tightening the screws, until there’s a moment of no return. A tipping point where fear transforms into something else. When the story shifts from being about people making a horror movie, to being about them living in one.

That’s the clever trick here: the monster isn’t just in the story they’re filming, it’s in the making of the story itself. And by the time you reach the conversion moment—the crossing of the line—you realise the book has been tightening around you the whole time.

I don’t want to give too much away, because this is definitely a book best experienced without spoilers. Part of the tension comes from not knowing exactly where it’s headed, only feeling the dread coil tighter with every chapter.

If you like horror that trusts you to be patient, that doesn’t rush its reveals but instead layers on unease until you’re practically vibrating with it, Horror Movie is absolutely worth your time. It’s not just about scares, it’s about memory, trauma, and the way stories consume the people who tell them.

The Quiet Joy of Re-Reading (and Re-Watching)

There’s something quietly comforting about going back to a story I already know. A book I’ve read before, a TV show I’ve finished, a film I could almost recite line for line. Some people chase the new, the thrill of the unknown — and I enjoy that too, but every now and then I find myself drawn to the familiar.

When I re-read a book, I’m not really chasing the ending anymore. I know what’s coming. Instead, I notice the little details I missed the first time: a clever line of foreshadowing, a look between characters that suddenly feels heavier, a piece of worldbuilding I brushed past too quickly. The story deepens, even though it hasn’t changed.

The same is true with films and TV. A favourite series becomes like background music for the soul, something I can put on when I want the comfort of characters I know. Watching them again is like visiting old friends. The tension of “what happens next” is gone, replaced by a softer anticipation of “ah, here comes that moment I love.” Sometimes it’s a dramatic scene, sometimes just a small exchange that always makes me smile.

Re-reading and re-watching remind me that stories aren’t just about surprise. They’re about connection. The first time is discovery; every time after is relationship. A well-loved book or film isn’t just entertainment, it becomes part of my personal landscape, a touchstone I can return to whenever I need grounding.

So yes, I’ll keep chasing new stories. But I’ll also keep circling back to the ones that stayed with me. Because in their familiarity, I don’t lose the magic, I rediscover it in a different way.

Writing and Escapism

 I’m a daydreamer. I often retreat into my own stories, crafting worlds and creating new narratives. It’s one of my favourite things—like having a brand-new movie on demand, only one that plays out entirely in my head.

It’s probably why I write. Some of these stories seem interesting, at least to me, and I hope that by sharing them I can pass along even a fraction of the joy they bring me.

Sometimes the ideas arrive fully formed and feel unique, as if they’ve come from nowhere at all. My mind latches onto them and starts filling out their reality with details and characters.

Other times they’re sparked by games. I’ve always been drawn to open-world sandboxes where you start as a blank slate—no obligations, no backstory, just freedom to define who you are within that world. That sense of possibility is intoxicating, and it often bleeds into the stories I write.

Books inspire me too. When I’m reading, I sometimes put the story down and imagine what else could happen. I’ve written before about my favourite characters, and occasionally I rewrite their fates—saving them, adding someone new to balance the group, or better yet, disrupting it completely.

Films do the same. I’ll drift off and change the ending in my head. Some films invite this more than others—I’ll let you decide which.

Imagination is a powerful, wonderful thing. I’m not suggesting anyone should live there all the time. Reality is tough, but it’s also necessary—and honestly, there’s no finer source of inspiration than the world around us. The trick, I think, is learning to carry that spark of daydreaming into the everyday, where it can make both fiction and life feel a little richer.

Making Your Own Story

I love to read, but my favourite stories are the ones I can’t wait to put down.

Sounds counterintuitive, I know. Let me explain.

I don’t think there are bad books, just ones that aren’t right for me at that moment. Some books I’ll persist with, carrying them around in my bag or leaving them on the arm of the sofa, picking away at them slowly. Others I let go of, quietly admitting that I’m not the reader they need. There’s a kind of freedom in that, in letting stories find their right moment.

The good books, though—those are the ones that pull you in so deeply you lose track of time. You tell yourself, “just one more chapter,” and suddenly it’s midnight and your drink has gone cold beside you. They’re the books that let you live in someone else’s shoes for a while, where the world feels bigger and softer because of what you’ve read.

But the really good books? They’re different. Those are the stories that reach out and shake something awake in you. You start to see what’s coming next for the characters, and you can’t help but hope for a different path. You want to step in and save that character from heartbreak, or give them the courage to speak up, or even take the villain aside for a cup of coffee to ask, “Is this really what you want?”

They’re the books that make you pause mid-chapter, staring at the ceiling, imagining how the scene might go if you were the one telling it. They’re the ones that make you close the cover gently and pick up your notebook, or open a blank document, just to capture the spark they’ve left behind.

The really good stories make you want to stop reading—and start writing. They remind you that you have your own stories to tell, in your own voice, in your own messy and beautiful way. They inspire you to take that feeling of adventure, fear, love, or hope, and pour it into something new.

Those are the stories that matter most. The ones that remind us we’re allowed to build our own worlds too—and that sometimes, the best way to honour a story you love is to start creating one of your own.