In Laymon's Terms

Jack Ketchum

ICHARD LAYMON WAS born to be a horror writer. Just take a look at a photo of the guy. Hell, it’s written all over his face. Just look at that goofy wicked grin. Reminds you of the Great Pumpkin, doesn’t it?

Though Richard had more teeth.

But what can I say here? What can I say about Laymon that I’m not on record as having said already? It’s a problem.

That his violence was overstressed, his sense of humor underappreciated?

Nah, said that.

That he was basically just a great big grown-up kid at heart who had a gift for remembering raging teenage hormones better than anybody I can think of and in doing so, helped you back to finding your own?

Unh-unh. Been said.

That he was a great storyteller with a wild absurdist bent who flung you into a yarn and double-dared you to find your way out again?

Damn! Said something along those lines too.

What then?

I know. That he’s already been gone too long and I miss him. The good handshake, the firm hug.

The goofy Great Pumpkin grin.