Unlike most authors, I struggle to find books that truly excite me. Part of my desire to write stems from the attitude that if I want to read a good book, I’m going to have to write it myself. I’m not sure why I’m so hard to please, but I have found actively creating my own stories to be immensely engaging. But there is one author whose tales captivated me so much that it sparked that initial desire to write—Howard Phillips Lovecraft.
H. P. Lovecraft sprung upon me from seemingly nowhere. I was happily engrossed in the video game Bloodborne when this author’s name cropped up. Ever since the term “Lovecraftian” kept appearing. There were also criticisms of his writing style and purported racist views, but this didn’t stop the comparisons. His stories sounded like a genre to their own; I had to see what all the fuss was about.
THE STATEMENT OF RANDOLPH CARTER was one of the first stories I read and immediately it struck me as being different. The premise of tomb raiding excites me, but I’ve grown tired of the same repeated formula of modern films, books and games—obvious hero in a race against obvious human baddie to inevitably ensure that a treasure is preserved. Yet this tale came before all this Hollywood gumpf and focused on why this premise truly captivates us. It dares to ask: would you enter? Inside all of us is a curiosity to explore counteracted by a fear of the unknown. Playing on this psychological battle is where H. P. Lovecraft thrives, and he feeds on our fear to deliver an ending that I found delightfully macabre and fresh.
I read story after story, but I remember I was staying with friends and family when I read THE OUTSIDER. The opening was so good, I had to read it aloud. It just oozed mystery. Here’s a section from the opening that I read to my friend:
I know not where I was born, save that the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible; full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows. The stones in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and there was an accursed smell everywhere, as of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. It was never light, so that I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief; nor was there any sun outdoors, since the terrible trees grew high above the topmost accessible tower. There was one black tower which reached above the trees into the unknown outer sky, but that was partly ruined and could not be ascended save by a well-nigh impossible climb up the sheer wall, stone by stone.
I must have lived years in this place, but I cannot measure the time. Beings must have cared for my needs, yet I cannot recall any person except myself; or anything alive but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged, since my first conception of a living person was that of something mockingly like myself, yet distorted, shrivelled, and decaying like the castle. To me there was nothing grotesque in the bones and skeletons that strowed some of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. I fantastically associated these things with every-day events, and thought them more natural than the coloured pictures of living beings which I found in many of the mouldy books. From such books I learned all that I know. No teacher urged or guided me, and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even my own; for although I had read of speech, I had never thought to try to speak aloud. My aspect was a matter equally unthought of, for there were no mirrors in the castle, and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to the youthful figures I saw drawn and painted in the books. I felt conscious of youth because I remembered so little.
THE SHADOW OVER INNSMOUTH is arguably my favourite because I resonated so strongly with the character in the tale. As someone who gets a thrill from travel, when someone says don’t go somewhere, I am inclined to go. And so too would I have walked into disaster whilst exploring the shunned town called Innsmouth. This tale also breaks from the static mould and has a gripping escape sequence. Like so many others that I’ve skipped mentioning, this story was so enrapturing that even the archaic language was no obstacle.
Having devoured these tales, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could write something similar. It’s not an uncommon step for a new writer to reflect the style of their favourite author, and though I did that at first, I have found more of my own style now. Nonetheless, there are a few things I do with Lovecraft’s stories in mind.
I like having chapter titles in my books, but I strive to name my chapters such that they could be the title of an H. P. Lovecraft story. See if you can spot one of my chapter titles from H. P. Lovecraft’s intriguing story names: The Haunter Of The Dark; Beyond The Wall Of Sleep; Dwellers In The Crypt; The Shadow Out Of Time.
Another quality I admire about H. P. Lovecraft is that his stories are as long as they need to be. He never felt like he purposefully padded out a story. He has novel-length tales and very short tales, and when I come up with an exciting idea for a story, I will simply write it. I don’t intend to pad out a story to turn it into a novel. Similarly, I think short stories—particularly in the horror genre—are vastly underappreciated by the industry. I read a lot more short stories than novels, simply because modern life is busy and I’m a slower reader.
Finally, I won’t begin or continue writing a story if I don’t have a beguiling fascination for the idea akin to the feeling I had when reading the stories I’ve mentioned here. And to be able to sit at a dining room table and have a sense of being enthralled is really why I write.
