Dorian Gray, Best New Horror, & Black Static


Now available for pre-order from Swan River Press and due out next month is the anthology The Scarlet Soul: Stories for Dorian Gray, which includes my story “Every Exquisite Thing” and nine other stories by terrific writers. Edited by Mark Valentine, this is another gorgeous production from Swan River Press that you won’t want to miss.


Also available for pre-order: Best New Horror #28, edited by Stephen Jones, from PS Publishing. This includes my story “Who Is This Who Is Coming?” from my short story collection You’ll Know When You Get There. You can get the trade paperback or the signed limited edition of Best New Horror, which has a fine lineup as always. And you can still get a copy of You’ll Know When You Get There from Swan River Press while they last.


Finally, there’s a new Black Static out; I have an ongoing column here, and for this issue I wrote about ghosts. There’s also a regular column by Ralph Robert Moore, fiction reviews by Peter Tennant and film reviews by Gary Couzens, and the usual lineup of fine fiction, this time from Ruth EJ Booth, Ralph Robert Moore, Georgina Bruce, Andrew Humphrey, Carly Holmes, and Mel Kassel, all beautifully illustrated by Vince Haig, George C. Cotronis, and Joachim Luetke. If you subscribe, you get the first issue free.

Black Static. Bleak Days.


cover art by Joachim Luetke

The new issue of Black Static is out, and in my bimonthly column, I talk about the intersection of politics and art:

What, then, are we to do, those of us who look at the world around us and see a narrowing, a meanness, a falling back to fight old battles we thought were won? And how can stories about monsters help anyone in times like these?

The magazine has the usual mix of terrific fiction, art, reviews, interviews, and commentary and includes the debut of Ralph Robert Moore as my fellow columnist. You can get this issue free if you subscribe now.


I can scarcely believe what a different world we are living in, and what a bleak one we are on the brink of, compared to my last post on this blog. You’ll be hearing from me more here than usual in the weeks and months ahead, because I have a lot to say and a lot to process and I have to believe that words can save us, or I’ll give in to despair.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

Resist. Dissent. Make art.

That’s all I got.

Black Static #36


Black Static #36 is out! In addition to my column, “Blood Pudding,” there are stories by Jacob A. Boyd, Stephen Bacon, Tim Waggoner, Christopher Fowler, V.H. Leslie, and Ray Cluley plus Stephen Volk‘s regular column “Coffinmaker Blues,” reviews by Tony Lee and Peter Tennant, an interview with the incomparable Nina Allan and the usual assortment of exceptional artwork.

Black Static is one of the premiere print magazines of the horror field, so if you love horror fiction and want to keep up with some of the best short fiction work being done in the genre, I highly recommend a subscription. You can also get it on Kindle in the US and in the UK.

Oh, and if you can’t get enough of my writing, you can still buy my book.

two announcements

The Moon Will Look Strange final

1. Above is the final cover for my forthcoming short story collection which, if you missed my earlier announcement, will be published by Karōshi Books later this year. To say I am delighted with the introduction by Steve Rasnic Tem would be a huge understatement.

2. From May, I’ll be the newest columnist for the British horror magazine Black Static, joining regulars Stephen Volk and Christopher Fowler. I’m thrilled about this as Andy Cox bought my first stories for its earlier incarnation, The Third Alternative (and the title story from the collection above appeared in there as well). Having an editor or two who believes in you in those early days is, well, pretty much what keeps you going.

on criticism

So, last entry I linked to a great review of Black Static #16 and “The Moon Will Look Strange.”  Monday morning, I woke up to this review.  Wow!  That is, by far, the most scathing review I’ve ever received. When I mentioned it on facebook, friends (and even one or two people I didn’t know) rallied valiantly to my defense, which was kind of awesome, like the way your friends will trash your awful ex for you if you need them to, because that’s what friends are for.  (Note to any exes reading this: you were not awful, and nobody ever had to resort to trashing you to make me feel better.  Really!)

And two friends asked me very incisive questions: So, was there anything to what he said?  Could you take something away from it, learn anything you need to do differently the next time?

The content of the review itself isn’t really the point here (aside from the fact that there is nothing quite like watching the trainwreck of writers publicly excoriating detractors of their work, which I wouldn’t do anyway).  It made me think about criticism, and how we react to it both publicly and privately.

I don’t need to name any names to point out that we can all come up with examples of writers of whom it’s said they grew too big and important to edit–I have no idea if that’s true or not (although the lead time for at least a few mega-bestsellers suggests that it is not necessarily the primary concern of publishers in some cases).  Certainly there are writers out there who are said to be difficult to edit, which I don’t doubt. But where does a writer (or a director, or a visual artist, or anyone creative) draw the line between sticking to their own brilliant idiosyncratic vision and realizing when, well, what they thought was really idiosyncratic and brilliant is really just awful?

When I first started writing seriously–by which I mean actually trying to finish stories and send them out–I had this horror that I might be the Ed Wood of fiction.  I have no idea what the real Ed Wood was like, but the way Johnny Depp plays him in the Tim Burton movie–he’s so sure that what he’s doing is, at the end of it all, good, and that audiences will just overlook the shabby sets, the dreadful continuity errors, the laughableness of the whole affair.  I mean, some people desperately do want to be poets and directors and painters and writers who create things that people want to read and watch and look at, want it more than anything in the world, and yet there is no amount of perseverance and hard work in the world that is going to make them not godawful.  We’ve all seen and read this stuff.  It can be hilariously bad but it’s also tragic–to want that so badly (and if you want it, you know just how badly I mean), and for it to be so futile, and for you not to know. Talk about real fear!

It’s been a long time since I quit worrying about being Ed Wood, because clearly people want to read and publish things I write at least some of the time. (True story: in the early days of submitting fiction, I had so much anxiety about the whole process that I first had to sit and envision the worst scenario I possibly could.  The editor would weep with laughter, call up all his or her friends, read it over the phone to them, save copies of the story to pass round to people in the future just for the yuks, remember and curse my name forevermore.  I would actually play this scenario out in my head, take a deep breath, and decide I could live with that and drop the damn story in the mail.)  But it doesn’t stop other worries: worries about being neither good nor bad but merely mediocre, or that the things you’ve written which have struck a chord with people are some kind of fluke, that you’ll never be able to summon that again.

It’s a delicate balancing act between the incredible arrogance of believing that you have a story to tell that anyone is going to give a crap about and knowing when you really do need to listen to cooler heads and murder your darlings, as it were.

I know lots of writers swear by their writing groups, either online or in-person.  I have sometimes thought, over the years, that I would like to be part of such a group, but when I really think about it, it’s the camaraderie and companionship and like-mindedness I crave, not so much the putting stories out there for critique part.  It’s not that I inherently have a problem with being critiqued.  It’s an issue of writing temperament. And I write stories the way I deal with most important things in my life . . . very privately, inside my own head.  Once I’ve got all my ducks in a row, so to speak, I’m willing to reveal myself, but I have never found it useful or productive to expose wild, raw material before I’ve had plenty of deep thinks about it and refined it into something that makes sense to me.

Of course, it’s ridiculous for a writer to talk about privacy, because another thing I firmly believe is that if we’re writing fiction that means anything to us and to other people, fiction that’s worthwhile, we’re exposing all sorts of mortifying things about ourselves all over the place.  The trick is (I like to tell myself) once it’s out there, you (the reader) don’t know where the rawness ends and the craft begins.  Maybe in the space of a single sentence, which starts out true and turns into a lie halfway through.  There’s probably something to the fact that one of my recurring nightmares is that I’m naked in public places, though.

So–coming back to criticism. There’s my confession: I write short fiction without benefit of outside critiques.  I am working on a novel now, and I’m not actually foolish enough to try and do the same thing there.  (It’s not my first novel–I’ve written one, and most of a second, and lucky for you, I will not tell the sad, sad story of the fate of my first novel here, which is considerably less sad than the stories lots of other writers have to tell, and to which plenty of people have reacted with greater resilience than I did.)  A novel is much too big to try and keep inside my own head.

I’m wandering far from my original topic here. What I really wanted to say is that–despite the sound of this entry–I think it’s vital that writers get critiqued, even after publication, and that we write with an awareness of the reader out there.  I may not run my stories past a workshop but if I send them out and nobody wants to buy them, that’s a critique right there.

There’s an idea out there that the best writers write for themselves–a couple of people have said that to me recently–and it’s both true and not true.  I know at least a couple of writers who really do write for themselves; they are amazingly talented and they are nothing like me.  They truly don’t care about sending stuff out or getting published; I only hope that they manage not to destroy what they write before they die and somebody astute stumbles upon what they’ve left behind.  I do write with a desperate hope to communicate, to have other people respond.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t write things that are meaningful to me, but I am always hoping that people will be interested and moved.  I don’t want to bore anyone, as I did the reviewer of the story; I don’t want you to get bogged down in blocks of text and indulgent drivel.

But I also don’t write fiction that is terribly plot-driven; I am interested in settings and characters and states of mind and atmosphere and prose and weird images that my brain dreams up when I’m not looking.  And that’s not always going to be to everyone’s taste.

I think it’s disastrous for writers to hear only good things about their fiction.  I don’t agree with the review I linked at the top, but I am grateful that two people asked me such pointed questions about it.  Equally as horrifying to me as the idea of being Ed Wood is the idea of surrounding yourself with people who always tell you that what you are creating is wonderful and right no matter what it is.  (Aside to my friends: paradoxically, this does not mean your support did not mean the world to me.  Please keep reassuring me of my awesomeness.)

But nobody should be protected from that.  Bad reviews ground us. Writing is an incredibly un-glamorous profession, but it can still be all too easy to surround ourselves with yes-people and end up like those celebrities who travel with an entourage that laughs uproariously at every single unfunny utterance that drips from their mouths.  It reminds us not just that everything we write is going to work for everyone, but that sometimes we can fail–at least in some people’s eyes–in very public ways and it’s okay.  We need to receive criticism and crappy reviews with thoughtfulness and grace and we even need to try and learn from them, when we can.

a review. a picture. some links.

I feel like I need to post something here which is not actually All About Me (despite the fact that it’s my blog), but I haven’t really had the time.

So, here are more things about me!

The first review of Black Static #16 says nice things about everyone.  People seem to be receiving their copies in the UK now but thanks to the angry volcano gods I expect mine will be delayed a bit longer.

Here is a link to the creepy illustration from the Polish edition of “The Last Reel.”  Thank you, Ben, for passing it on!  Scroll down to the three little pictures at the bottom.  It’s the first one, of the girl from behind, if you haven’t read the story.  For those who have read the story…people have pointed out to me that 1. they expected a darker room and 2. they expected that if the walls could be seen, they would have more stuff on them.  I agree with both of these points, but I think the picture captures the essence of that moment in the story.  I always enjoy seeing stories I write take on a life of their own in this way once they’re out in the world, whether through illustrations or reviews or what someone tells me about what they saw in the story.  Although I have never felt egregiously misread–which I’m sure is unpleasant–I am not particularly attached to the images inside my head and the ideas behind stories I write.  Actually, that’s not true–I am quite attached to those things, but I don’t feel compelled that others share them with me when they encounter whatever sprang from them.

Okay, here is something which is not all about me.  A couple of years ago, the excellent and mysteriously pseudonymous Arbogast tossed out a compelling challenge known as The One I Might Have Saved.  What horror movie victim really gets you–who would you save if you could?  A few days ago, he resurrected the challenge across a couple of posts.  I’d like to do this at some point when I get a chance but in the meantime, as well as the other contributions, you can check out Derek’s: poor old Brendan Gleeson from 28 Days Later. Yeah, Frank always gets me too.