The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2003, Volume 14

by Stephen Jones

  California book dealer Barry R. Levin announced his fifteenth Annual Collectors Awards, with Neil Gaiman named Most Collectable Author of the Year, and Crossroads Press as Most Collectable Publisher of the Year for the lettered state of Dead Roses for a Blue Lady by Nancy A. Collins. Helen and Marc Younger and Daniel Hirsch received the special Lifetime Collectors Award for their outstanding bibliographic contributions to the study of the works of Theodore Geisel (Dr Seuss).

  In early September, award-winning genre commentator and former editor of Horror Garage Paula Guran posted a controversial article about the current state of horror fiction on the Locus Online website.

  According to the writer, her opinion piece provoked a deluge of hate mail on various message boards, particularly on the Horror Writers Association site, and having participated with Guran and others in a panel discussion about the article at the 2002 World Fantasy Convention, I can testify to the level of debate and resentment the essay elicited.

  Provocatively entitled “Tribal Stand”, the article begins with the writer’s “distressing realization that so few in our field still seek professionalism, a high level of achievement, legitimate credits, and to gain a sense of history – attributes that combine to set what we might call the Standard.”

  She then goes on to explain that such standards are set by a writer’s peers, and “wannabe” authors need to continue honing their skills if they expect to be taken seriously. This is all very sensible advice for any would-be writer, and so far the piece contains nothing too disputable.

  But then Guran comes to the core of her thesis with the assertion that “in the horror tribe, the Standard is breaking down.”

  She next launches into a very North American-biased review of the history of the horror genre and its practitioners over the past thirty years. Here she touches upon the end of the 1980s horror boom once the writing had become formulaic, when big fat horror novels were seen simply as a commodity and publishers dismissed the genre as a marketing tool. She also takes to task the proliferation of “How To” books on writing horror and the burgeoning number of organizations and conventions aimed at fans.

  Guran quotes the late Karl Edward Wagner who, while taking the field to task almost a decade ago, was also astute enough to realize that “The good writers will hang in there and survive.”

  She also quotes from a 1998 essay/speech by Douglas E. Winter (another of the genre’s premier analysts), who pointed out that: “Great horror fiction is being published today; sometimes it wears other names, other faces . . . Probably the most welcome result is the departure of the bottom-feeders and lemmings, who will move along to writing the flavor of the new decade and allow the conscientious writers of the horrific to flourish.”

  And here is where the writer breaks with the views of her peers. In Guran’s opinion, “Without that system of standards of which we dare not speak, all too often it is not the conscientious writers of the horrific who are flourishing and being encouraged within the horror writing community itself.”

  It is easy to see how a comment like this would be likely to get under the skin of any member of the Horror Writers Association. Especially someone who is desperately trying to make a name for themselves in that writing community. For most would-be authors, it’s hard enough just finding the time to write fiction, let alone also sourcing a suitable market for their work. They don’t need to be insulted as well.

  According to Guran, “Yes, the hacks, bottom-feeders, and lemmings began bailing out of the shrinking pond of horror. But it was not the good who always survived in the remaining shallow puddle . . . They planted themselves in the mud and whined.”

  And according to Guran they are still whining.

  She blames the networking capacity of the Internet and publishing on the Web, CD-ROM or print-on-demand for turning these so-called “mud-whiners” into “real writers” to be admired and listened to by the “wannabes”.

  However, what she fails to take into account is that it is getting more and more difficult for writers to be published – especially if those writers have decided to work in the horror field. Newsstand magazines and professional anthologies have all but disappeared, and it is only through the efforts of the “small press” (which, as the preceding annual round-up reveals, probably now publishes more horror than the so-called “mainstream”) and such new technologies as those cited in the article, that most horror fiction survives at all.

  Guran, quite rightly, points out that writing any kind of short fiction these days is no way to earn a living. That could also go for editing anthologies and writing novels too. But if the horror genre is going to survive and, hopefully, expand, then these new writers need an outlet for their work. If they have nowhere else to publish, then they will eventually leave the field. And where, then, will the new generations of horror writers come from?

  “And woe to anyone who nay-said these self-declared deities or their new-found acolytes or dared point out a lack of quality,” she continues. “E-damnation was swift for any who mentioned such outmoded concepts as standards of good writing or professionalism.”

  There is no denying that Guran is right on the mark here, as she quickly discovered for herself once the article appeared online. It is depressing that the majority who reacted to her comments decided to do so by attacking her rather than by entering into a reasoned dialogue about the many important points raised in her piece.

  It should also be noted that Guran herself made her name as an online writer (which she readily acknowledges in her article) and it is a little ironic perhaps that her criticism was published in such an electronic forum.

  Despite this mild contradiction, she goes on to say that “Neither these new ‘writers’, nor their ‘editors’, had to meet any sort of Standard at all.” Quite simply, she claims that because of new technology, anybody can now be a writer or publisher. “No one needs to learn the craft of writing . . . Just grind it out, accumulate approbation from your similarly-ranked pals, and vigorously ignore the Standard.”

  Of course, Guran is correct – to a certain extent. All branches of writing will include the terrible along with the terrific. Horror is no exception. There is no excuse for bad writing, but isn’t that for the reader to judge for themselves? After all, I’ve edited enough anthologies to know that no two people usually agree on the worth of a piece of fiction. And such things as “craft” can be learned with experience.

  When choosing stories to include in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, I consider work that originally appeared in a wide variety of publications and formats. And I know that other anthology editors do so as well. Not all the good stuff makes it into a professional showcase first.

  Guran continues: “And the tragedy is that the most self-aware among this new breed know they don’t measure up to Real Writers, and are happy to tread water in an eddy that is 90 per cent pointless, derivative crap, appearing in dreadfully conceived anthologies full of amateurs, or excreting another novel-length waste of time about vampire cockroaches.”

  Although I am certain that the majority of writers would rather do the best work they can and have that work published in the most prestigious markets available, it should come as no surprise to anybody that this does not always happen. Sometimes a sale is a sale, and a writer (or even editor) is forced to compromise their talents to earn a crust or see their endeavours presented to as wide an audience as possible.

  Guran blames the horror “community” itself for creating a new fiction ghetto (a charge that has often been made before) by becoming self-promoting and isolationist. Unfortunately, so far as horror is concerned you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. If you successfully move into the “mainstream” you are widely regarded as selling out; if you stay behind and try to promote the genre then, according to Guran, you are merely exacerbating the problem.

  Perhaps even more damaging, she also accuses those people currently working in the genre of staying silent, of not calling attent
ion to the problems. Well, I am sorry to contradict, but many of the criticisms in her article have already been addressed in this very series of books and by other well-established writers elsewhere. I have also been on enough convention panels with people such as Doug Winter, Ramsey Campbell, Ellen Datlow and David J. Schow, as well as with various others, to know that staying silent is not usually an option among horror professionals.

  “Most of all, never, ever feel passionate about the literature you once loved”, denigrates Guran. “In fact, other than bitterness over the detail that someone else got rich – or at least richer than you – try not to feel anything at all.”

  Unfortunately, this is not a view of the horror community that I recognize at all. If anything, we are sometimes too passionate about our feelings for the genre. If we weren’t, most of us would be earning a great deal more money elsewhere. For many writers and editors in this field, financial rewards are not always the primary concern.

  Guran makes a case for horror to “be both profound and entertaining”, sentiments with which I readily agree. But what is this “system of standards of which we dare not speak”? She never actually tells us. And that is the problem. As readers, writers and editors we all have our own system of standards. We may not always agree with each other, but it is that very diversity of taste and erudition that binds our community.

  I may not agree with everything Paula Guran says in her article, but I commend it to anyone who has more than a passing interest in horror fiction. It is an important piece of writing that raises many pertinent questions about the way we perceive ourselves as both individuals and as a community. Like the best horror fiction, it is certain to provoke a reaction but there is no reason to react to it with hostility. Read it carefully, and then discuss it with anyone who shares your interest in the genre.

  Near the end of the piece, Guran states “Horror, of course, will survive as it always has.” And in that sentiment, at least, we are unanimous.

  The Editor

  May, 2003

  NEIL GAIMAN

  October in the Chair

  NEIL GAIMAN’S 2002 NOVEL American Gods won science fiction’s Hugo Award and horror’s Bram Stoker Award. His latest novel, Coraline, a dark fantasy for children that he had been writing for a decade, was a huge success on both sides of the Atlantic and looks set to follow its predecessor in the awards stakes.

  On the illustrated front, his first Sandman graphic novel in seven years, entitled Endless Nights, is published by DC Comics; 1602 is a new series from Marvel, and he has collaborated with artist Dave McKean on a children’s picture book called The Wolves in the Walls.

  As well as all the above, he somehow also found the time to make a short film entitled A Short Film About John Bolton, which is due for release on DVD, and he has recently started writing a new novel, with the working title Anansi Boys.

  About the Locus Award-winning “October in the Chair”, he explains: “I began this story several years ago, when Harlan Ellison and I were at a convention, and we were meant to be writing a story together in a roped-off area. But Harlan was late on a deadline for an introduction, so he was typing that. I wrote the first few hundred words of this story then, and showed it to Harlan. He read it through, suggested I clean up April’s language, and said no, he thought that really this was the beginning of one of my stories. So I began a different story, which Harlan called ‘Shoot Day for Night’ when he continued it. One day, at some other convention, behind some other ropes, I have no doubt that it will be finished.

  “So the months sat around the fire on my hard disk for several years, haunting me but unwritten. Then, last year, Peter Straub asked me for a story for Conjunctions 39, and I got to find out what happened next.”

  OCTOBER WAS IN THE CHAIR, so it was chilly that evening, and the leaves were red and orange and tumbled from the trees that circled the grove. The twelve of them sat around a campfire roasting huge sausages on sticks, which spat and crackled as the fat dripped onto the burning apple wood, and drinking fresh apple-cider, tangy and tart in their mouths.

  April took a dainty bite from her sausage, which burst open as she bit into it, spilling hot juice down her chin. “Beshrew and suck-ordure on it,” she said.

  Squat March, sitting next to her, laughed, low and dirty, and then pulled out a huge, filthy handkerchief. “Here you go,” he said.

  April wiped her chin. “Thanks,” she said. “The cursed bag-of-innards burned me. I’ll have a blister there tomorrow.”

  September yawned. “You are such a hypochondriac,” he said, across the fire. “And such language.” He had a pencil-thin moustache, and was balding in the front, which made his forehead seem high, and wise.

  “Lay off her,” said May. Her dark hair was cropped short against her skull, and she wore sensible boots. She smoked a small, brown cigarillo that smelled heavily of cloves. “She’s sensitive.”

  “Oh puhlease,” said September. “Spare me.”

  October, conscious of his position in the chair, sipped his apple cider, cleared his throat, and said, “Okay. Who wants to begin?” The chair he sat in was carved from one large block of oak-wood, inlaid with ash, with cedar and with cherrywood. The other eleven sat on tree stumps equally spaced about the small bonfire. The tree-stumps had been worn smooth and comfortable by years of use.

  “What about the minutes?” asked January. “We always do minutes when I’m in the chair.”

  “But you aren’t in the chair now, are you, dear?” said September, an elegant creature of mock solicitude.

  “What about the minutes?” repeated January. “You can’t ignore them.”

  “Let the little buggers take care of themselves,” said April, one hand running through her long blonde hair. “And I think September should go first.”

  September preened and nodded. “Delighted,” he said.

  “Hey,” said February. “Hey-hey-hey-hey-hey-hey-hey. I didn’t hear the chairman ratify that. Nobody starts till October says who starts, and then nobody else talks. Can we have maybe the tiniest semblance of order here?” Small, pale, dressed entirely in blues and greys, he peered at them.

  “It’s fine,” said October. His beard was all colours, a grove of trees in autumn, deep brown and fire-orange and wine-red, an untrimmed tangle across the lower half of his face. His cheeks were apple-red. He looked like a friend; like someone you had known all your life. “September can go first. Let’s just get it rolling.”

  September placed the end of his sausage into his mouth, chewed daintily, and drained his cider mug. Then he stood up and bowed to the company and began to speak.

  “Laurent DeLisle was the finest chef in all of Seattle – at least, Laurent DeLisle thought so, and the Michelin Stars on his door confirmed him in his opinion. He was a remarkable chef, it is true – his minced-lamb brioche had won several awards; his smoked-quail and white truffle ravioli had been described in The Gastronome as ‘the tenth wonder of the world’. But it was his wine-cellar . . . ah, his wine cellar . . . that was his source of pride and his passion.

  “I understand that. The last of the white grapes are harvested in me, and the bulk of the reds: I appreciate fine wines, the aroma, the taste, the aftertaste as well.

  “Laurent DeLisle bought his wines at auctions, from private wine-lovers, from reputable dealers: he would insist on a pedigree for each wine, for wine frauds are, alas, too common when the bottle is selling for perhaps five, ten, a hundred thousand dollars, or pounds, or Euros.

  “The treasure – the jewel – the rarest of the rare and the ne plus ultra of his temperature-controlled wine cellar was a bottle of 1902 Chateau Lafitte. It was on the wine list at $120,000, although it was, in true terms, priceless, for it was the last bottle of its kind.”

  “Excuse me,” said August, politely. He was the fattest of them all, his thin hair combed in golden wisps across his pink pate.

  September glared down at his neighbour. “Yes?”

  “Is this the one where
some rich dude buys the wine to go with the dinner, and the chef decides that the dinner the rich dude ordered isn’t good enough for the wine, so he sends out a different dinner, and the guy takes one mouthful, and he’s got, like, some rare allergy and he dies just like that, and the wine never gets drunk after all?”

  September said nothing. He looked a great deal.

  “Because if it is, you told it before. Years ago. Dumb story then. Dumb story now.” August smiled. His pink cheeks shone in the firelight.

  September said, “Obviously pathos and culture are not to everyone’s taste. Some people prefer their barbecues and beer, and some of us like—”

  February said, “Well, I hate to say this, but he kind of does have a point. It has to be a new story.”

  September raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “I’m done,” he said, abruptly. He sat down on his stump.

  They looked at each other across the fire, the months of the year.

  June, hesitant and clean, raised her hand and said, “I have one about a guard on the X-ray machines at La Guardia airport, who could read all about people from the outlines of their luggage on the screen, and one day she saw a luggage X-ray so beautiful that she fell in love with the person, and she had to figure out which person in the line it was, and she couldn’t, and she pined for months and months. And when the person came through again she knew it this time, and it was the man, and he was a wizened old Indian man and she was pretty and black and, like twenty-five, and she knew it would never work out and she let him go, because she could also see from the shapes of his bags on the screen that he was going to die soon.”