Philip Robinson
HROUGH AN INTERNET message board, I once told Richard Laymon how my agent had rejected a novel manuscript because she was so disturbed by the content that she didn’t feel comfortable introducing such work to the reading public. The book had been heavily influenced by Richard Laymon. He replied, suggesting I frame that letter.
Perhaps ten years before, I’d read a book called The Stake, by a guy I’d never heard of...purchased in a secondhand bookstore in Dublin. Three pages into it, I knew I had to read everything this man had ever written. I had my favorite writers...people whose work I devoured...and by the time I’d finished The Stake, there was a new star amongst their ranks. I’d always been astounded with the sheer consistency of Laymon’s work. Unlike many of his jaded contemporaries, in the latter period of his career he was actually producing some of his greatest work...books like Island, Body Rides, The Midnight Tour, The Traveling Vampire Show.
I acquired my copy of The Wilds directly from Richard Laymon, a “Christmas 2000” gift from my wife (it was a late gift, arriving around the beginning of January). The Laymon family had gone on vacation around the time it arrived, and when they got back home Richard emailed my wife and told her he’d been thinking about us during his vacation, worrying that we might not have safely received the book. This man, whose work had changed my life and made me want to be a writer, had been worrying about me! I’d often dreamed of meeting Richard Laymon (and embarrassing the hell out of him by gushing about his work), but a little over a month after I’d received The Wilds in the post, we got the terrible news that Richard was gone.
During very dark periods in my life, when everything seemed a waste, the one thing that kept me going was the dream that one day I would be a published writer. My love for the work of a very select number of writers kept that dream alive for me, kept my enthusiasm strong. Richard Laymon was, and still is, at the top of that list.