In Laymon's Terms

Unlike the rest of the inhabitants of the genre ghetto (science fiction, fantasy, romance and westerns), Horror and its older cousin, Mystery, are confrontational instead of escapist. Unlike the others, the imagined world in these genres is worse than ours, not better. Terrible things happen and if the good guy wins—far from a common event—the price is very high. In fact, the price of “winning” is often so high that one wonders if the protagonist wouldn’t have been better off losing. Unlike even mysteries, in Horror there is, by the very nature of the genre, no escape from terrible things. That’s what the genre is all about, a bad world made even worse.

Why people read or write it is not a subject for this essay. What it takes to write it? That touches on the unreasonable sanity of horror writers.

To write horror one must imagine a world far worse than this one. A world where there are monsters under the bed, where being a good guy gets you not only dead, but eaten in the bargain, and where the worst thing that you can imagine happens. And then you have to write about it with such detail and imagination that the reader believes it.

In the process, how can one avoid confronting and making some kind of peace with one’s own fears? I can’t explain why, but that process seems to produce some very kind, gentle, sane people.

Dick once wrote a story in which a high school age girl is raped by one of her teachers. The rape scene is truly horrifying and graphically detailed. A terrible thing, yes?

More terrible though, is that the character of the girl is very closely drawn from Dick’s own daughter. As is the rest of the family. Including the father, who for quite some time has no idea that the rape has happened. At first look it might seem comprehensively sick to even imagine such a thing, let alone to write about it. Yet, what father hasn’t thought of such a thing happening? But many fathers and mothers shy away from thoughts like that. Horror writers don’t. Dick certainly didn’t.

The second time Dick and I met was just before the 1998 World Fantasy Convention. It was on the occasion of his first appearance at my store. I’ve always liked it when authors read some of their work before a signing and Dick kindly consented to read a short story. Back in those days we had a smaller store and so we did our readings in the basement. A basement reading could be a bit intimidating—the room was large, brick-walled and just a little damp. The light was deliberately a little spooky and, for the reader, it was hard to see the audience.

The story that Dick read was “Kitty Litter”. It’s a sweet little tale about a girl coming to adopt a kitten. Except the girl is really rather horrid. And she threatens the quiet fellow who’s giving away the kitten. And then steals the cat. By the end of the story you’re quite happy when she falls in the pool and drowns. The nice fellow who was so mistreated listens to her splash and then goes for a walk.

It was an excellent reading and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Dick was the quiet, nice fellow who takes a walk. It was not until quite a while later that I discovered that Dick was very nervous at that reading. The reason? It was the first time he had ever read his work in public.

Would Dick Laymon actually walk away from a little girl who was drowning, regardless of how horrid she was? I’m sure he wouldn’t. But, like many people, he certainly might have wanted to.

Dick, myself, a number of other authors and my staff had dinner after that reading. The (wise) manager of the restaurant put us in our own room at the back of the building. However, throughout that dinner people kept poking their heads in to “see what all the laughing was about.”

Quite a contrast, isn’t it? A man who can imagine his daughter raped, write about it, and sell this nightmare for money. Yet the same man always had a kind word of encouragement for younger authors, worked tirelessly for the overall good of the horror field as a leader and organizer, and would giggle like a girl when provided with suitable amounts of certain beverages.

It may be quite a contrast but it’s not contradictory. Dick could imagine walking away from a drowning girl or his daughter being raped. He could turn it over in his mind and see each detail. He could put words around the worst things that we can imagine. And it made him sane because he had looked at all the darkness, confronted it, and passed it by.

Richard Laymon was one of the best-hearted people I’ve ever known in my life. All the blackness went out on the page, where it will continue to thrill, frighten, and entertain long after we’re dust.

Brian Keene