In Laymon's Terms

Slurping sounds as the boy finished up and then went back to the corner to chew some more. A beast broke from the pack and slunk over to the girls. Alison cringed, allowing Kylie to hold her. I’m not here...this isn’t happening.

“Kylie,” Alison said. “Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.”

But Kylie couldn’t help her. The beast had taken hold of her upper arm with his teeth and dragged her away. Others noticed and joined him. One bit into her cheek with a sickening pop as another chewed into her stomach.

Alison tried to get up but slipped and fell on her stomach. She clawed at the floor, scooting away as something heavy pounced on her back. Claws raked her clothes, peeling them off. The little boy watched with a smile as the beast entered her.

“Kylie,” he said pointing at Alison. “Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.”

Alan Beatts

HERE ARE A NUMBER of fine things to be said of the horror writing community in general and horror writers in specific. As a newcomer to the field in 1998, I was struck by the uncommon friendliness and, for lack of a better word, gentility of the people I met.

My first real contact with the larger world of professional writing and publishing was at the 1998 World Horror Convention in Phoenix, Arizona. I had opened my bookstore a mere six months previously and was as wet behind the ears as they come. I’d always been an avid reader but my experience with writers was nonexistent. I arrived at the convention with no idea what to expect and spent a good deal of time feeling a bit lost. I did, however, have a goal. Other than to not look like a babbling fool and sell a few books—I had only marginal success at either of those things.

One of my most enthusiastic customers had been telling me about Richard Laymon for several months. This customer was a huge fan of Laymon’s work and had asked me to get a few books signed while I was at the convention. So, books in hand I went to the Friday evening mass signing. After embarrassing myself trying to tell one of the guests of honor how much I like his writing (always a bad idea), I went off in search of Richard Laymon. I found him sitting a bit off to the side of the room, smiling and cheerful. I went and got the books signed. While he signed them we talked a bit about my store and I mentioned that I was getting the books signed for a customer of mine. Books signed, I moved aside so the next person in line, a woman with a luggage cart loaded with books, could get by. Goal complete I headed to the bar to get over having been in a room full of authors.

It was there that Dick came up to me and introduced me to his wife and daughter. We spoke for a while about inconsequentialities and I mentioned that I would love to have him come to my store for a signing. We exchanged cards and both headed our separate ways.

At the time I was struck by how friendly and flat-out normal he (and, for that matter, everyone I met that weekend) was. I had expected a slightly odder and, to be honest, harder-to-deal-with crowd at a horror convention. I didn’t know at the time just how common my misconception was.

Three and one half years after that meeting I received a phone call from his wife informing me that Dick was dead.

It felt then, as it does today, that I had lost a brother.

And yet, I can count the number of times I saw Dick in person on my hands. How could someone with whom I spent so little time come to mean so much to me?

After a considerable amount of reflection I’ve concluded that it was because Dick was such a gracious and truly warm person. Almost all my contact with Dick was at industry functions, conventions mostly, so I had many opportunities to see him dealing with younger writers and fans. They would approach him nervously and be chatting and laughing within minutes. He had a talent for making people feel comfortable and even more importantly, valued.

The general public expects horror writers to be at least as disturbing as the material of which they write. The perception is that, to write such gruesome, terrible stories, the author must be at least a bit deranged themselves and act that way.

I cannot look into the minds of the authors I know and so I cannot speak to their sanity or lack thereof. But I can comment on their actions, and those actions are far from deranged. In fact, I have never been in the company of a more sane and pleasant group of people. They are polite and considerate, entertaining, witty and even charming. They laugh a lot and are, if you’ll forgive the term, jolly. Sometimes they might drink a bit too much (all right, much too much) but they don’t break things often and almost never get into fights.

All in all, horror writers are better adjusted than the average. At least they act that way and I suspect that they really are that way. The why of it is a bit of a mystery but I know what a big piece of it is.