Of course, the aforementioned quartet of bestselling authors has been at this game a little longer than you have. They developed their respective styles through countless hours of hard work.
Work on short stories and novels, that is. Telling story after story, getting each one down on paper, typing "The End" time and time again. Learning what works and what doesn't by trial and error. Even learning unconsciously. Because, let's face it, no beginning writer sits down at the good ol' word processor and says, "Forget all that story and plot junk...today I'm going to develop a style."
Well, maybe someone has tried that. Actually, I wouldn't doubt it. But I'm still holding that green money, and I'll bet that any misguided boob who attempted such an endeavor failed miserably.
Because your writing style comes from within. In fact, you've probably already got it, or at least a good chunk of it. You just don't know about it yet. But maybe I can help you find it...or at least show you where to look.
All you'll need is a shovel and a stout heart.
Now, follow me to the cemetery...
Here we are. Cool fog raising gooseflesh on your arms. The full moon shining up above. Gnarled branches scratching the night sky. A forest of marble monuments and granite headstones looming before you.
You recognize the scene, don't you? Sure you do. Any horror writer worth his salt recognizes Dr. Frankenstein's favorite bone garden. Just as you remember why the good doctor invariably makes the cemetery his first stop.
It's the mad scientist's very first rule — if you’re gonna make a monster, you're gonna need parts.
Creating a writing style isn't much different. Just as the Frankenstein Monster is a crazy quilt of dear-departed humanity, your writing style is an amalgam of influences. Which is why you must read —and read widely— if you want to write.
Mad scientists open graves. Writers open books.
I knew this from the start, long before I ever became serious about publishing my fiction. I worked for several years in the local public library, during which time I read the very best the horror genre had to offer. From Poe to Bradbury, from Matheson to King and on through Lansdale and Schow, I absorbed the lessons of those who labored in Dr. Frankenstein's cemetery long before I ever picked up my shovel.
But I also learned a great deal from writers in completely unrelated genres. For me, crime writers were a big influence in developing every element of my work. I learned a great deal about, mood from writers who specialize in crime noir. And when it comes to pace and plot, I found my best teachers in writers such as Elmore Leonard, John D. MacDonald, and Dan J. Marlowe.
I didn't confine my reading to novels, either. I found anthologies especially valuable. In the space of a single anthology. I'd invariably be exposed to as many styles as there were stories. Not all of them were successful or effective, of course. But sometimes it's just as important to learn what doesn't work as what does work...and why.
Now, please don't get the impression that I'm telling you to imitate other writers, especially when it comes to style. I certainly wouldn't advise you to do that.
But I'd be less than honest if I didn't tell you that a certain amount of imitation is unavoidable. Especially for a writer who's just starting out. H. P. Lovecraft's early work strongly echoes Poe. Other Lovecraft stories strongly recall the tales of Lord Dunsany. Robert Bloch began his career as a student of H. P. Lovecraft, only to evolve into one of the finest psychological suspense writers of his generation. Ramsey Campbell also followed in Lovecraft's footsteps, publishing Cthulhu mythos-inspired fiction as a teenager. But Campbell didn't stop there. He continued to grow and evolve, and today he is one of the most original stylists in horror fiction. While Campbell is still more than capable of putting a twist on Lovecraftian themes, his style of writing is now thoroughly his own. In fact, these days more than a few young writers have begun their careers by imitating Ramsey Campbell.
So, consciously or unconsciously, every beginning writer imitates. Including me. Looking back, some of my early stories reflect stylistic influences that didn't quite pan out. Like "Body Bags," the Vietnam war horror story written as a first person account that dripped with passages of lush, Poe-like description which was completely inappropriate to the story's timeframe. Or the overblown fantasy-epic fight scenes which read like something written by Robert E. Howard on steroids. Or the "surprise ending" stories which certainly didn't make anyone forget the nasty punch-to-the-gut climaxes patented by Robert Bloch in his prime.
So I had my share of misfires, but the truth is that some of those imitative stories actually did work out. While compiling my short story collection, Bad Intentions, I was surprised to rediscover early tales written while I was obviously under the sway of writers as disparate as Dennis Etchison and Joe R. Lansdale. But reading those stories today is kind of like looking at a ten-year-old photograph of yourself. Sure, you recognize the guy in the picture, but the clothes he's wearing may surprise you!
So while a certain amount of imitation is necessary, in the final analysis it's just another way of developing your own creative filter, of learning what works and what doesn't. But it's certainly not the end of the process, and I'll tell you why.
No matter how high you aim, no matter how talented or successful or popular the writer you choose to emulate, you'll find that imitation is not only a dead end, it's also a trap.
Let me give you an example. In the early eighties, the horror field was booming. Stephen King enjoyed a huge popularity. Naturally, many writers set out to be "the next Stephen King." They wrote knockoffs of 'Salem's Lot, replacing King's vampires with zombies or werewolves. They wrote limpid apocalyptic "thrillers" which paled when compared to The Stand. Neighborhoods of haunted houses populated with Jack Torrance wannabe's sprang up, and it seemed that every high school class (in fiction, anyway) contained at least one telekinetic teenager meant to rival Carrie White.
Publishers jumped on these books, each one eager to create "another Stephen King." Because of this, some of the King clones had a pretty good run in the eighties, publishing one book after another while pulling down some pretty healthy paychecks.
Then the bottom fell out. The public caught on. "Why buy a King clone," they asked, "when the real thing is still going strong?" The clones stopped selling. Publishers lost money.
Many houses stopped buying horror novels entirely or cut their horror lines dramatically. The King clones, some of whom had become accustomed to healthy advances, suddenly couldn't sell their new novels. To this day, the horror novel market has not quite recovered from the glut of unoriginal fiction which appeared in the eighties.
Okay. You've been warned, and you're still determined to make a go of this mad scientist business. You're stitching your monster together, working every day.
You're reading. You're writing. You're putting in the time.
But you don't want to overdo it, especially when it comes to style. You're walking a fine line. A dash too much mood, an extra dollop of flowery description, and your horror stories will read like parodies. They'll invoke laughter rather than fright.
It's the "hey, Ma, look at me write" syndrome, and it's usually the result of over-polishing your prose.
One of the hardest things to learn as a writer is when to quit. Some beginners become so obsessed with making each story "perfect," each line of prose "deathless," that they sabotage their own fiction by revising it to death. And sabotage is not too strong a word. Because overblown description, multiple metaphors, and overused similes can wreak explosive destruction upon your tales of terror.
Too much of a good thing is indeed too much of a good thing. Remember that.
But also remember that even Dr. Frankenstein had his failures. That nasty bit of business with Igor and the abnormal brain, for example. But the good doc wasn't a quitter. When things didn't work out the way he'd planned, Victor Frankenstein always got out his shovel and headed back to the cemetery.
So don't give up. Put in the time. Write those stories. Read th
ose books. Stitch that monster together.
One day he'll be stretched out on that slab before you, just like in the movies. You put him together — an experiment here, an influence there —but I think you'll find that he doesn't quite look like any of those things you made him from. He's no sum total of his parts, this guy. He's an original.
And just when you're ready to throw the switch and juice him with electricity he'll probably surprise you by sitting up and stalking off completely on his own. See, you've already done that—all the work you put in, that was the juice your monster needed. Your creative spark gave him life.
Just look at him.
You can even holler "It's alive! It's alive!" if you want to.
Because this monster's lookin' good, isn't he?
That's because he's got style.
A Word From the Editor[s]
So far you've heard a lot from me about the days when I was jump-starting a career in writing. I've told you how I approached the work itself, and how I set out to market it. Of course, everything I've said comes from my perspective.
I thought it might be interesting to check in with a few of the editors and publishers I've worked with over the years to see how things looked from their side of the fence. My purpose is not to present my own testimonial, but to give you an idea of how editorial priorities and preferences can match up with a writer's own creative sensibilities. Read these comments carefully and you'll see that editors and writers definitely match up that way—not to mention through similar attitudes about working itself (which is another way of saying that you'll sometimes find connecting with an editor is a matter of personalities, too).
Let's start off with Bill Schafer, overlord of Subterranean Press, and the fellow who published the book you're now holding in your hands. To tell the truth, I've lost track of exactly how many Sub Press projects I've worked on, so let's just say there have been many. Bill had this to say:
What kept me coming back to the Partridge well? I'll tell you....It starts with "Apotropaics," which I think is one of the most underrated stories of the '90s. In it, you've got a couple levels of horror going on, the deepest, subtlest, revealed at the end. It's not a trick story, but I remember rereading it immediately, to see if you'd played fair, and if I'd interpreted the horrors correctly. You did, I had, and I've been a Partridge junkie ever since.
The lesson there? Take care of your readers, folks. You never know which one of them might turn out to be your next publisher!
Next up is World Fantasy Award-winner Stephen Jones, a well-known writer and anthologist who's also been heavily involved in film and television over the years. Jones edits the annual series, The Best New Horror, and, like Ed Bryant, noticed my work early on. One reason we connected was a shared love of pulp fiction and pop culture, as you'll see in the following comments:
I guess it was probably my co-editor David Sutton who first brought your story "Return of the Shroud" to my attention. Dark Voices: The Pan Book of Horror was an entirely open paperback anthology series, and your elegant prose already had the power to lift the story out of the slush-pile, while the pulp-ish subject matter immediately appealed to my own love of that kind of storytelling... That same year (1992), Ramsey Campbell and I also selected your tale "Guignoir" for the third volume of our Best New Horror series. Once again, I loved the concept of the haunted car, the carnival background and the sly references to popular music and movies. The sparse writing style also gave the story a style all of its own that led with scalpel-like precision to the final, chilling, payoff.
Talking of haunted cars, I think I was the one who first picked "Spyder" for Dark Voices 6 (1994), the final volume in the series. By then I had read the original edition of your Bram Stoker Award-winning collection Mr Fox and Other Feral Tales and I was very aware of how assured you were becoming as a writer. For me, “Spyder" was very much a diptych with "Guignoir," especially with its show-business background. However, if anything, the writing had grown leaner and the telling had grown darker.
I have continued to read, and hugely enjoy, your short stories and novels, which have ranged from gonzo horrors to lounge-lizard detective mysteries. What attracts me to your work—besides such obvious concerns as the superior writing—is that I think we share so many common interests; drive-in "B"movies, pulp literature, Mexican mythology and late-night television (I still have that tape of 1960s Green Hornet episodes you kindly put together for me).
So Stephen Jones and I connected through similar sensibilities. The same can be said about my relationship with Rick Klaw, another editor possessed of a wicked eye for pop culture (who has written some pretty interesting commentary on same). I worked with Rick on several comic book projects under the MOJO Press banner, and he has some fun memories of those days:
Chicken pox. Whenever I think about working with Norm Partridge that's what comes to mind. Then my mind wanders to gun-totin' gorillas, talking severed heads, and other strange things.
Norm was one of the first writers that Joe Lansdale and I approached for the hardback comics anthology Weird Business, a 425 page anthology with some 23 stories and 56 creators, published in 1995. When we contacted Norm, he was just coming off winning his first Stoker award. Luckily for us, he hadn't gotten a swelled head and readily agreed to produce an original comic book script.
When Joe and I got the story, we were floored. A western with a gorilla gunslinger versus clowns and creationists, all with Norm Partridge's trademark wit and sense of adventure. "Gorilla Gunslinger" is the lead story in Weird Business and one of the most popular tales in the book. So popular that I contracted Norm to pen an original Gorilla Gunslinger graphic novel....
Sadly, due to no fault of Norm's, the graphic novel was never finished. (Hopefully, some day it will see print.)
Oh, the chicken pox. After Norm turned in the initial Gorilla Gunslinger story, Joe and I learned he wrote the entire thing while he had chicken pox. Every day, he was crawling out of bed, covered in calamine lotion, so he wouldn't miss his deadline. Hot damn. Might have been the pox or the lotion fumes, but Norm produced one of my all-time favorite comic book short stories. Is it any wonder I love working with this man?
Ed Gorman is a fine writer of mysteries, westerns, and what I simply think of as "good dark stuff." Saying that Ed's prolific doesn't cover it—I've always thought of him as a "writer's writer" as well as a talented editor. He has also been a mentor/advisor for a good many of the writers I know. I sold Ed stories for several Gorman/Greenberg projects when I was first beginning to crack pro anthologies, and he had this to say about my work (and his own modus operandi as an editor):
To me there are two ways to evaluate a story. One is voice. A unique or especially powerful voice can sometimes carry a weak story. So if the voice grabs me I try hard to come up with ideas for the writer to make the story stronger so I can buy the piece. And sometimes a story is so strong I'm willing to forgive a whole lot of infelicities in the writing. I'll noodle on those, too, but even if the writer isn't ever going to be Richard Yates or John Cheever, if the story just won't let go of me, I'll buy it anyway
What I remember about you is that the voice was as strong as the story and that both were, from the git-go, all your own. I remember saying to Marty that this kid is going to be huge. I still think that.
Lastly, let's check in with Rich Chizmar. As mentioned earlier. Rich has become one of the premiere publishers in the horror genre as the driving force behind CD Publications. Rich published my first short story and my first novel, and I've been involved in many other projects under the CD banner over the years. Rich calls 'em like he sees 'em, as you'll see here:
The one thing that really stands out for me is that you approached everything with a really strong blend of professional preparation and organization and knowledge...and mixed it with genuine in-your-face enthusiasm. Genuine being the key word. You loved this stuff and weren't afraid to show it. I think that's part of the reason we clicked so well. We both grew up with the
dark stuff—first and foremost, we respected and cherished it. We were amused by the bad stuff, loved the good stuff, treasured the great stuff. You were never afraid to sound and act excited...but at the same time, you were a "pro" from day one. We actually looked for stuff to enjoy and appreciate in the genre, as opposed to most of the writers/editors/publishers, who were so busy and so vocal about all the stuff that was wrong with the genre. It felt like you and I and a handful of others were the only ones really having fun...
The same goes for today, but even more so...
Also:
You had a quiet confidence that is the exact opposite of so many of today's up-and-coming authors.
You demonstrated a healthy knowledge and respect for the genre's roots...you knew your shit but didn't strut around preaching and teaching. You seemed to understand that you— even after lots of story sales and a novel sale—were the one still being taught. You were still hungry to grow and experiment. The hell with traveling to every genre convention you find and slapping that WRITER badge on your chest and heading to the bar and the panels...you were more concerned with sticking your ass in a chair and doing the work.
Yep. Doing the work. If you want to be a writer, that's your job, first and foremost.
But writing isn't the only work you'll need to do if you want to sell your fiction successfully. Read between the lines in the above commentary and you'll realize that you need to understand editors, too. I've got a couple of tips to offer you in that regard.
Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales Page 29