In Laymon's Terms

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.

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.