Though I consider myself a horror writer, I’m not a big reader of genre fiction. My definition of what constitutes a horror story is quite broad. Broader than most people’s. I look to find horror or strange stories or weird fiction or whatever you want to call it in unexpected places, often written by authors not associated with genre writing. All I ask is that the story be disturbing and odd and chilling. That it might make me laugh with some horrible black humour while at the same time thinking, ‘Should I really be laughing at that?’ That it might stay with me. That it might haunt me not because of ghosts or vampires or zombies, although those things might be present, sure, but rather because some unwelcome truth has been exposed. Something that resonates with my own life. For me, this is what makes a horror story work best. And ambiguity. Tons of ambiguity.
A Personal Anthology, by Tim Jeffreys
A Personal Anthology, by Tim Jeffreys
A Personal Anthology, by Tim Jeffreys
Though I consider myself a horror writer, I’m not a big reader of genre fiction. My definition of what constitutes a horror story is quite broad. Broader than most people’s. I look to find horror or strange stories or weird fiction or whatever you want to call it in unexpected places, often written by authors not associated with genre writing. All I ask is that the story be disturbing and odd and chilling. That it might make me laugh with some horrible black humour while at the same time thinking, ‘Should I really be laughing at that?’ That it might stay with me. That it might haunt me not because of ghosts or vampires or zombies, although those things might be present, sure, but rather because some unwelcome truth has been exposed. Something that resonates with my own life. For me, this is what makes a horror story work best. And ambiguity. Tons of ambiguity.