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Douglas E. Winter
A: I prefer the word craft. Criticism is a craft—and yes, it's one unto itself, like marksmanship or calligraphy, directing films or writing novels. It requires skills and hard work, as well as inspiration.
Criticism can rise to the level of art. And, of course, criticism helps define art—and anyone who doesn't think there's art in horror is a fool. But I'm not comfortable talking about my own work in those terms. I try to write seriously and with sincerity, but my ambition is to connect with readers, not to write for posterity. Especially since posterity has a funny way of taking care of itself.
A: There's no doubt: I prefer to write fiction. When it's late at night and I'm trying to finish a nonfiction piece, juggling footnotes and bibliographic references, making sure that my facts are straight, I think: You know, it's a lot more fun to make things up. And I like the reach of fiction—the ways in which you can touch readers on so many different levels.
With nonfiction, there are often inherent limitations: A book review must, by definition, review a book; and however entertaining and informative, a review almost always requires a direct and logic-driven narrative. A short story, on the other hand, has no such limits—and offers many more opportunities for metaphor and subversion.
A: Not really. I set out to shake the trees, maybe even topple a few.
The essay expanded on a speech I gave at the 1998 Stoker Awards Banquet. I was unhappy with the state of horror fiction and its willing descent into the gulag of genre. I was also unhappy with writers who complained about publishing's abandonment of horror, because they were responsible for allowing themselves—and horror—to be categorized . . . and thus so easily abandoned.
The response was fascinating. HarperCollins wanted to publish the speech as a chapbook; Ellen Datlow ultimately included "The Pathos of Genre" in Year's Best Fantasy & Horror. But now, more than five years later, I wonder how many people were really listening.
A: To quote David Byrne: "Same as it ever was." The only difference is that now people have had sixteen years to know this truth (which isn't something I invented—it was known to anyone who grew up reading horror fiction before 1980).
People have had sixteen years to stop buying into the notion of horror as genre. Sixteen years to reclaim horror from marginalization. And it makes me sad, because despite all the lip service paid to horror as an emotion, too many readers and writers and publishers accept horror as a genre. Which means horror—that kind of horror—is dead, so far as major publishing is concerned.
To my mind, that's a good thing. But it also means that some very good writers who were caught up in the commercial rush to package a type of fiction called "horror"—or who simply became identified, through no fault of their own, with genre horror—have been exiled from mainstream publishing.
A: I think your premise is wrong. There isn't a new religious-political climate. That climate has prevailed for thirty years—actually, since the founding of this country. The pundits who expressed post-election surprise that conservative religion would align with conservative politics are like the people who said everything changed after 9/11. The only thing that changed is that some people woke up. For a few days or weeks or months, they woke up to reality . . . until they were lulled or distracted or scared back to sleep. If people didn't realize that George W. Bush's power base included fundamentalist Christianity, then they've been orbiting Venus for the past four years—I mean, this country's Attorney General ordered the draping of nude statuary. And it wasn't that long ago that the Religious Right took credit for electing Ronald Reagan . . . so why the sudden surprise that religion plays a persuasive role in politics?
Let's face it: Religion has influenced politics for longer than there's been a United States of America. But during the past thirty years, the walls that once separated church and state have come crashing down, and through the ruins came organized religion—accompanied by its bastard child, so-called family values - intent on imposing its beliefs on others.
So . . . should writers worry? No more than they did twenty years ago, when Ozzy Osbourne and Judas Priest were sued because of suicides said to result from their songs. No more than they did five years ago, when Paladin Press was sued for murders supposedly caused by the book Hit Man, and Oliver Stone was sued for a shooting supposedly caused by Natural Born Killers.
If you step into the public discourse, which is what writers do, then you'd best understand that there are risks and responsibilities, along with rewards . . . however meager. Writers suffer lawsuits for many reasons. I've defended writers against claims of libel, invasion of privacy, violation of copyright, even allegations of stealing someone's life. But here's the thing: writing horror doesn't make writers any more or less susceptible to litigation; and hey, we're small potatoes—that's why rock-and-rollers and filmmakers are sued far more often.
I'm concerned about censorship, but if you choose to write horror fiction, then you're writing a literature of transgression. You're writing about repression, you're confronting moral and social judgments, you're defying the norm—and you're inviting censorship. And I don't want to hear you whine about an editor or publisher who asked you to revise the testicle harvesting scene. That's not censorship. We'll know the real horror writers when they start handing out jail sentences.
A: I'm more concerned about readers, not reviewers; but it was an interesting experience for someone who's written reviews and criticism to spend time on the other end of the microscope.
Some reviewers—certainly reviewers in the U.K. and Europe—got it. Some American reviewers seemed bemused by the notion that a thriller might actually have something to say. And one or two reviewers found that idea repellent, which made me wonder why they even bothered to review books, unless they thought reviewing was all about summarizing plots and awarding one to five stars.
But understand: Run was intended as a Trojan horse. The style tried to match its title, and if a reviewer focused on that style, that was fine with me. Because the style was all about urging the reader on, deeper and deeper into the action. Yes, I have something to say—lots of things, actually. But novels are entertainment first, and unless you entertain the reader, draw them in, subvert them, you're writing a tract.
A: I've written Hide under a two-book contract with Knopf. That's about all I can tell you now. I don't like to talk about my books until they're published, because the books should tell their stories . . . that's why I write them.
A: Those wishful predictions were one reason I wrote "The Pathos of Genre": Nothing good was going to come to pass for genre horror. And nothing good will come to pass in the name of horror unless and until writers and readers and publishers understand that it's something other than a convenient marketing category.
If you're waiting for a boom, then you're going to be waiting a very long time, for two essential reasons.
Genre horror is a low priority, if it's a priority at all, for major American publishers. Why? Because genre horror doesn't sell. Why? Because it's genre horror. It's as simple as that.
I love 'Salem's Lot. Every few years I read it again. But I don't want to read someone else's version of 'Salem's Lot—or their version of Interview With the Vampire or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Matter of fact, I don't ever want to read another vampire novel again.
I've said that before. And then a writer will come along and change my mind. Tim Lucas with Throat Sprockets. Todd Grimson with Stainless. Or, more recently, Elizabeth Knox with Daylight. But those books are rarities, and written in defiance (or ignorance) of genre.
I'm tired of writers who can't be bothered to think of a horror story that's about something other than a monster, whether that monster's a vampire or a serial killer or a zombie or a bullying boss. I'm tired of writers who can't be bothered to think of a horror story that's about something other than a small, isolated town. I'm tired of writers who can't be bothered to think of a horror story that's about something other than the gross-out.
And you know what? Publishers are tired of them too. And yet . . . those publishers are issuing horror novels. They're not biased against the emotion of horror; they're just biased against generic horror.
Horror, real horror, has moved on. It's evolved, because literature evolves. Just like rock-and-roll. Just like fashion. Just like us.
Genre horror seems defined by a moment in time: 1984, the year that Stephen King and Peter Straub published The Talisman . . . the year that Clive Barker's Books of Blood were unleashed. I can't think of one critical shift in the subject matter or intent or style of genre horror fiction since then. But that was twenty years ago. Ronald Reagan won his second term as President. First class stamps cost twenty cents. Apple introduced the Macintosh computer. Ghost Busters was the top-grossing film. Frankie Goes To Hollywood had three hit singles—and Avril Lavigne was born.
The world has changed radically in those twenty years, and so has its literature. And yes, we have Steve King and Peter Straub, but they're like Springsteen—they keep rockin' to their own beat, but refining that beat as they go. Way too many writers working in their wake want to be them—or worse, they're stuck in 1984. They want to be A Flock of Seagulls.
And it's like . . . come on, folks, get over it. That's what I was trying to say when I wrote about horror as an emotion. And that's what I was saying, far more directly, when I wrote "The Pathos of Genre": You're dinosaurs, folks . . . and the meteor hit ten years ago.
I don't say that in a mean way. I love horror fiction; I desperately want horror fiction to survive. But it will only survive like everything else survives: through evolution . . . and occasionally, revolution.
A: Run was optioned for film originally by two British producers, and I had the opportunity to write the screenplay. Now the project is in Hollywood, in the hands of a smart director, for whom I've just completed a revised screenplay. So the status is good . . . for Hollywood, at least.
A: I always have things in the works . . . too many things. I love anthologies—I love short stories, and I love editing - and the idea of presenting stories in interesting contexts, which is why I declined an offer to edit a Prime Evil 2 and pursued Revelations instead.
I view my anthologies as part of my writing career, not as a sidelight. But good anthologies take time—and a publisher who's willing to give you the time and the money to create something meaningful, rather than simply collect stories.
In my experience, books aren't planned as much as they are revealed. That requires patience. That's why I don't write a book a year—I can't. For me, something that important, that's so intimately mine, must be revealed.
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