Richard Dansky

Most of my best writing teachers have been books.

Since graduating high school, I have taken precisely one formal full-length writing course. It was entitled “Writing For the Stage”, an undergraduate seminar at Wesleyan taught by an irascible Mancunian poet named Tony Connor. I learned a great many things from Professor Connor, not the least of which was what it sounds like when you try to get Harold Pinter out to the pub for a pint. What I didn’t learn in this, the last extended writing instruction I’d ever receive, was much about the writing of prose. (Drama, yes. Prose, no. And the less said about the discussion in English 201 about “Alien Death Fleet”, the better.)

What that meant, ultimately, that most of what I learned about writing came from other teachers, ones who didn’t dwell in classrooms. It came from editors like Ed Hall at White Wolf, who was the first one to make me think about word choice as it related to character motivation. It came from writers like Storytellers’ own Janet Berliner and Jim Moore, who took me under their respective wings, poked and prodded at the writing I showed them, and lovingly eviscerated my work in a way that helped make it – and me – better.

But mostly, it came from books. It came from reading endlessly and finding things on the page that I could learn from, that I wanted to achieve and knew that I couldn’t, at least not yet. It came from finding authors who were no-doubt-about-it better than I was and reading them twice; once for pleasure, and once to dissect what they did in hopes of getting a glimmer of how they did it.

Then I’d try it, and fail, and try again. Mind you, I suspect that in most cases, I’m failing still. Now, though, I know enough to try, and that means a great deal.

And so, on this Thanksgiving, here’s a list of ten authors whose work I am thankful for, for they have been my teachers. They are not the only writers I have learned from or enjoyed or admired; indeed, far from it. But they are, however, the ones whose writing set off singular lightning bolts of what I devoutly hope is understanding, and for that, I can only express my appreciation.

• Charles L. Grant, whose descriptions could only be called impressionistic, and who could gracefully paint a scene in a handful of words without losing a single detail.
• John Myers Myers, whose Silverlock serves as a constant reminder of the joy of telling stories, and how those stories can resonate and mingle.
• Julian May, whose juggling of immense dramatis personae provided the key to infusing even minor characters with distinct personalities and memorable roles.
• H.P. Lovecraft, for demonstrating the art of describing without description, the definition of what something is not being much more effective than a clinical recitation of what something is.
• Raymond Chandler, whose Simple Art of Murder is a masterclass of calling bullshit on all the writerly tricks that are so tempting to use and abuse.
• Thomas Ligotti, whose phrasing drove me to commit attempted euphony, and with malice aforethought.
• Manly Wade Wellman, for providing an object lesson on how regional dialect and color can be much more than mere window dressing – and harsh reminders on the importance of getting it right.
• T.E.D. Klein, for inducting me, all unknowing, into the cult of the well-meaning nebbish protagonist. I remain a faithful devotee to this day.
• Tim Powers, whose lesson to me was that you don’t have to make it all up, not when the real world has already provided such astonishingly rich source material. Obvious in hindsight, yes, but earth-shattering to someone raised on the graph-paper-and-funny-name school of epic fantasy novels the size of cinderblocks.
• Stephen King, for the constant reminder that in amidst the blood and thunder, what actually matters in a horror novel is not the monster, nor the gore, nor the hypothetical special effects budget, but instead the people.

For all these, and for many others, I am thankful. But most of all, I am thankful that class is still in session and always will be; that there are still authors out there to be discovered whose works I can learn from, and new works from authors I know that I have not yet explored.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some homework to do. And yes, I’m looking forward to it.