Ten years ago, I wrote a blog post bemoaning not being part of The 80s Horror Boys Club. This was back in that strange time where there was such a thing called a blogosphere, and blog friends would comment back and forth on each other’s posts as part of the hustle. (It seems surreal now to look back and think that we would actually apologize to everyone for getting “behind on my comments,” but that was part of the way we built our readership.) I had recently joined the Horror Writers Association, but hadn’t yet attended any in-person events that allow for networking, so I didn’t have many, if any, horror writer friends. I was young, a woman, new to the field, and my genre of choice was in sharp decline. I felt I’d missed the boat.
I have worked my ass off since then. I’ve had hundreds of stories and poems published, most at professional rates. I’ve been nominated for a Bram Stoker Award twice. Someone who wasn’t me made a Wikipedia page about me (which still makes me laugh like a hyena when I think about it). I have a fantastic literary agent working to sell my books. Anne Rice recommended my blog to her followers. I am, slowly, doing the thing.
Just when I think maybe I’m getting too big for my britches, I’ll hit a new milestone. Most recently, I went into a bookstore in real life and bought a book with my name in it for the very first time. Over ten years in and I just now got to buy my book off a physical shelf. And I was so geeked that I took a selfie in front of the store despite weird looks from everyone in the mall parking lot. No, my britches fit just fine, thanks.
By and large, folks don’t blog anymore. Not the way we used to. No one expects a weekly post from me. We don’t generally use RSS feeds to “keep up.” It’s a small chance that many of my subscribers will open their email today. Twitter has largely shifted focus. Instagram is hard to socialize on. Facebook is a cesspool. It doesn’t look like I’ll be attending in-person events anytime soon.
At my local Barnes & Noble, I was emotional to see where my latest publication was shelved: Horror. If you went back and read my post from a decade ago, you’ll understand why. Back then, Horror as a sellable genre was disappearing. Marketing was shelving the works in other genres. The whole category was done away with; even Stephen King was being shelved in general Fiction. I’d missed my boom.
Friends, the boom is back. The boom is better. The boom is young, inclusive, diverse, and fiercely original. I have made, and continue to make, friends in my genre. I do still feel isolated, but it’s because I don’t have time to network like I used to. (Hello, motherhood during a pandemic. With my second baby my skeleton changed shape. My hips are literally different enough that my structured pants don’t fit anymore. Talk about getting too big for your britches.) I know that my tribe is here, and we are doing work, and it’s amazing.
The book in question that has had a big enough release to make it into the major chains is Other Terrors: An Inclusive Anthology, published by the HWA and sold by my own agent to HarperCollins. Its premise is to highlight horror through the lens of the other. LGBTQ, women, minorities, etc. My story explores pregnancy and age among women. (See: pregnancy changes, above.) The whole collection is knock-you-over gorgeous, and I could not be more honored to be a part of it.
I still feel, constantly, like I may be missing my boat. I want, one day, to be ridiculously uncool about finding one of my own novels on the Horror shelf at a bookstore. My name not just in it, but on it. But luck and timing have more than their share to do with it. I don’t know how long my boat will wait around. That’s scary, and not the good kind.
But the thrill of this experience has reminded me of something vital: I want to write what I’m writing no matter what. I want to be read, desperately—that’s true. I want to be known enough to find my audience, to move people with what I do. But I also want to write, and that I can do no matter what else happens.
No matter my pant size, no matter the boat schedule, I will be here, writing horrific and beautiful things, because that’s part of who I am—not just what I do. And frankly, I am lucky to have even the opportunity to do it.
Here are my three latest. They are all stellar anthologies that would look gorgeous on any bookshelf. Please check them out!
Other Terrors: An Inclusive Anthology
My short story “Churn the Unturning Tide” is about a young woman attending a senior water aerobics class with all older women who zero in on her youth and pregnancy—until the male instructor discovers something in the water that draws their collective attention.
This Horror Writers Association anthology also boasts stories by Stephen Graham Jones, Tananarive Due, Alma Katsu, and more.
Under Her Skin
This poetry anthology features the best in never-before-published dark verse and lyrical prose from the voices of Women in Horror. Centered on the innate relationship between body horror and the female experience, this collection features work from Bram-Stoker Award winning and nominated authors, as well as dozens of poems from women (cis and trans) and non-binary femmes. It includes my two poems “The Edge” and “Pieces.”
The Hideous Book of Hidden Horrors
“The Pelt” is one of my favorite short stories I’ve ever written, and I’m so happy it has finally found the perfect home. It’s about a woman who wakes up one morning to discover an unidentifiable animal pelt draped over her barbed wire fence. Hidden Horrors also has stories from Josh Malerman, Zoje Stage, Gabino Iglesias, and more.
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Stranded between the safety of two villages, a mother must protect her newborn from the nightbirds—terrifying creatures who hunt using sound.
A dark fairy tale about a young man who doesn’t heed his grandmother’s warnings about the teeth fairies who live in the woods.
“White Paint,” Cemetery Dance Magazine #78
