There’s surely no more reason to criticise a piece for conveying only this experience than there is to object to a comedy for being nothing except funny (as might be said of Laurel and Hardy, surely the greatest exponents on film) or a tragedy for making its audience weep. Certainly one of the pleasures of some of the greatest work in the field is the aesthetic experience of terror (which involves appreciating the structure of the piece and, in prose fiction, of the selection of language). Lovecraft declared that the weird tale – by which he meant much of what I mean by horror fiction – could only ever be a portrayal of a certain type of human mood. I started writing horror in an attempt to pay back some of the pleasure the field has given me, and I haven’t by any means finished. Perhaps I was lucky to encounter the classics of the genre first – anything that found its way between hard covers and into the public library – but I’ve never faltered in my conviction that horror is a branch of literature, however much of it lets that tradition down. Some might even like to convince us that they never entered the field, and seek to erase all traces of their presence as they flee the scene of the crime. Some of those who made their name with it seem eager to show they’ve moved on. I believe I’m in a minority of writers who say that they write horror. Admittedly the sort of fun this affords is limited, and I think there’s a better reason for me to keep up the image. On occasion they approach me to let me know as much. Sometimes they even tell me that they don’t like the sort of thing I write, although they haven’t read it. I quite enjoy being told that people don’t like horror, which they don’t read (a situation that prompts me to ponder how they can know). That’s how I introduce myself at readings and on panels, and in conversation too if the opportunity arises.
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