Confessions of my Past, Present and Future
by
Rich Hawkins
The Past
It was back in 1989, I was nine years old and in primary
school, when I discovered a book called Dracula.
Until then, I had merely heard the name whispered in the playground, where
rumours of old Hammer films spread along with the head lice and poo jokes. I
was already scared of ghosts and monsters under the bed (I had yet to hear
about Cthulhu), and the children’s cartoon Count Duckula had introduced me to
the notion of vampires – even though that particular character consumed
vegetables instead of blood – so I should have been a little prepared for what
happened on one of those perfectly sunny days of a lost childhood.
I wasn’t.
I suspect that chaffinches were frolicking in the trees
outside and I was probably thinking about what Mum was making for tea as I went
to the mini-library at one end of the classroom (it was basically two
bookshelves and a patch of threadbare carpet to sit on), looking for something
to read.
And I was not prepared.
I saw this little hardback book peering out from between the
adventures of Roger Red Hat and Jennifer Yellow Hat. I took the book from its
hiding place and appraised the front cover.
I was terrified and intrigued. My little heart quickened
with the same species of excited fear I’d felt when I first watched Ghostbusters on VHS. The book was a
‘Ladybird Horror Classic’ according to the cover, which comprised of the Count
himself rising from his coffin to deal with some foolish interloper. I was
mesmerised. This was fantastic and terrifying and for that moment there was
just the book in my hands and nothing else mattered. This was better even than
Wacaday with Timmy Mallet. Better than Thundercats. Better than fucking Star
Wars!
I had no knowledge of the Bram Stoker classic and only
had a vague image of a clip from a film that showed a man with dark hair and
fangs, wearing a cape – which turned out to be Christopher Lee, of course.
Needless to say, I devoured the book in minutes – it was
an abridged edition no longer than thirty pages, with illustrations and large
print – and then I read it again. And again. I think I read it almost every day
until I moved on to secondary school and had to leave it behind. It planted a
seed in my mind, and a love for monsters and horror fiction, that would fully
bloom three years later with my first viewing of John Carpenter’s The Thing.
I still occasionally think of the book and wonder what
became of it. I wonder if it’s still in that mini-library, in the corner,
hidden away as shelter for spiders. I wonder if another child found the book
and fell in love with it. I hope that happened.
I hope it did some good.
The Present
I don’t read as much as I used to, as it’s difficult to
find the time when my one-year-old daughter is rampaging around the house and
most of my spare time is spent writing. I should read more. Nevertheless, I’ve
read some excellent books recently. In my humble opinion, the horror fiction
genre is very strong.
Adam Nevill’s latest, No
One Gets out Alive, and David Moody’s, Strangers
were both superb, and at the moment they both set the standard for horror
novels, despite having very different writing styles. I’ve recently finished
Benedict J Jones’ crime thriller Pennies
for Charon, and that was one of my favourite reads of the year; as was Adam
Baker’s, Impact. I’m currently
rereading JG Ballard’s, The Drowned World,
which is even better second time around.
To be honest, there are so many talented horror/dark
fiction writers out there that I’ll never get around to reading all of their
work. So that makes me a little sad. But on the other hand it’s inspiring to me
as a writer, because it makes me want to work harder and better.
Whether I do end up writing better, that’s for the reader
to judge.
The Future
I’ll be sixty-five in 2045, if I’m still alive. Bloody
hell. And even then I could be a gibbering wreck sucking meals through a straw.
I could be part-machine. Will I still have a beard? Will there still be books?
It scares me to look that far ahead, to be honest.
Growing old terrifies me. The future will be a weird place, but I hope by then
our species has figured out how to work together and stop fucking up the
environment. Hopefully I’ll still be writing and getting books published. Who
knows? I’d hope to be healthy enough to do what I love and be able to write
without having to work a day job. Maybe I’ll get that post-apocalyptic epic
stewing in my head onto paper. And it’d be cool if some of my fellow horror
scribes had hit the big time by then. They deserve it.
I wonder if I’ll be as obsessive about writing as I am
now. I’ve got loads of ideas, and I know they won’t all see the light of day,
but that doesn’t matter; it doesn’t annoy me as much as I thought it would.
What does matter is when I’m an old man I want to be able to look back and know
that I tried my best and have a body of work I can be at least a little pleased
with. Knowing me, probably not, because I’m always overly-critical with my own
writing. But even if I can look back and know that some people enjoyed my
books, it would be of some comfort as my eyesight starts to go, arthritis
wracks my limbs and I lose bladder control. You have to enjoy the little
things, I suppose.
I may delve into some crime or science fiction at some
point; they’ve always interested me, especially crime fiction. That would be an
interesting challenge.
But I can’t see myself turning away from horror. I love
it, like cheese.
Because horror will always be there. Horror is with me
for life.
You can buy any of Rich’s books here.
If you would like to help support Confessions of a
Reviewer then please consider using the links below to buy any of the
books mentioned in this feature. This not only supports me but also lets
me know how many people actually like to buy books after reading my
reviews.
Thanks.
Rich Hawkins hails from deep in the West Country, where a childhood of science fiction and horror films set him on the path to writing his own stories. He credits his love of horror and all things weird to his first viewing of John Carpenter's THE THING when, aged twelve, he crept downstairs late one night to watch it on ITV. He has a few short stories in various anthologies, and has written one novella, BLACK STAR, BLACK SUN, released earlier this year. His debut novel THE LAST PLAGUE has recently been nominated for a British Fantasy Award for Best Horror Novel. The sequel, THE LAST OUTPOST, is due for release in the autumn of 2015.
He currently lives in Salisbury, Wiltshire, with his wife, their daughter and their pet dog Molly. They keep him sane. Mostly.
And for more about Rich, see his site or find him on
social media:
Website – Facebook – Twitter – Goodreads – Amazon Page
No comments:
Post a Comment