A Note from Erika T. Wurth
When I was a kid, I attended a Christmas party held by my father’s side of the family. They’d heard I was a reader. So, I was gifted a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. I remember turning it over and over, genuinely wondering where the dragons, ghosts, or spaceships were. The books that I loved were what some folks call “genre,” and what some are now labeling (more specifically) “speculative,” though that label is often taken in different ways, as some think of it as an umbrella term for horror, science fiction, and fantasy, and others as literary horror, science fiction, and fantasy.
Terms like this have been around for a long time—to help talk about the bendiness, if you will, of hard-to-categorize literature. There’s magical realism. Or slipstream. Hybrid literature. But the great divide that isn’t seems to be around the term literary. What does literary mean? It seems to carry a lot of weight in academic circles, though I don’t hear it discussed in concrete terms. It strikes me that literary fiction shares three traits: complex characterization, depth of theme, and attention to form and language. And those elements can exist in a novel about a dying marriage or in a novel about a cop or a spaceship.
More to the point of my recent conversation with horror authors Carolina Flórez-Cerchiaro, Rachel Harrison, and Paul Tremblay, there’s been a lot of talk about a horror renaissance the last few years. And although horror can be seen as slasher-gore-porn, it’s also a genre that is very bendy indeed. How else can you talk about the genuine horrors of the body? Of politics? How else can you touch on what might be beyond this mortal coil in a fun, strange, and imaginative way? And there are so many bendy, smart, wonderfully weird horror authors who, to my mind, absolutely qualify as literary.
Horror has changed since its last surge in popularity in the ’80s and ’90s. With writers like Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Grady Hendrix, Josh Malerman—just to name a very few—many names in the book world (whether literary or commercial or both) were largely absent from mainstream book discourse just a few years ago. The conversation that follows between me, Carolina Flórez-Cerchiaro, Rachel Harrison, and Paul Tremblay, writers both literary and commercial, explores the state of the genre, the distinction between horror and literary horror, and the reasons for this so-called horror renaissance.
Erika T. Wurth
My first question for all of you is, simply put, would you say that there is a renaissance when it comes to horror fiction? And are there some things that you feel define this renaissance? How would you put your work within that renaissance if you do feel that there has been one? Rachel, you want to kick us off?
Rachel Harrison
I’m not sure if there is a horror renaissance or if it’s just becoming more mainstream. What defines this era of horror for me is that there seems to be more recognition and appreciation of the genre as art, and also the wide variety of stories being told / the voices telling them.
Paul Tremblay
Absolutely. The depth, breadth, and diversity of approach and perspective within horror fiction has grown and expanded immeasurably within the last ten years. No mean feat for a genre once associated with being innately reactionary, both in terms of its politics and story structure. Whether or not I’ve succeeded at the following, I’ve strived to write stories/novels that challenge/transgress social mores and do not work to restore or rescue the status quo. Irrevocable change is a fundamental component of existence, and our best horror fiction reflects that truth.
Carolina Flórez-Cerchiaro
Yes, I think you could argue that we’re seeing a sort of renaissance in horror fiction. The past decade or so has seen a huge surge in horror in all forms, with more and more voices and fresh perspectives entering the conversation. Horror is no longer confined to its traditional boundaries, and it’s now more accessible to people who may not have otherwise gravitated toward the genre.
The blending of genres—mixing romance, comedy, mystery, historical fiction, and more—are drawing in a broader audience, expanding the reach of horror and creating new spaces for storytelling.
The panorama is more daring, and I don’t think of it as a simple resurgence or momentary revival of the genre, but rather an ongoing evolution of horror, making it more dynamic, more resonant, more nuanced, and ultimately more thrilling than ever, because it truly speaks to the world we live in. The stories we’re consuming today are deeper, richer, and more layered. I think this renaissance is ultimately about subversion—horror is a genre that is constantly challenging itself, moving beyond traditional monsters and jump scares, to explore real-world fears, emotions, and societal issues.
As a marginalized creator, and someone who has always sought stories that reflect my own experiences and the world around me, I’m beyond thrilled for this horror era because it feels like a long-overdue moment. For so many years, horror was dominated by a narrow perspective—one that was predominantly white, male, cisgender. Now, it’s evolving, and it’s welcoming the richness of diverse backgrounds, culture, and identities. I get to contribute my own unique perspective as a Colombian author, tapping into the folklore, history, and traditions of my culture, which often haven’t been fully explored in mainstream horror. It feels like a celebration of diverse voices and narratives, and a moment where creators like me can tell stories that are both terrifying and meaningful.
Wurth
As everyone is noting, there’s absolutely no way around it; horror is having a moment (that hopefully isn’t just a moment). Certainly, it has to do with our potential descent into fascism, the horror and claustrophobia of the pandemic, when it seemed like this genre regained steam, but I also think that sometimes it’s about the cycle of literature. Folks were ready to read this genre again because they remembered how fun and brilliant Stephen King is (no matter his flaws) and the genre had begun offering multiple perspectives. The reading public is big. Though I’ve heard folks repeat the adage that Americans aren’t readers, if you’re not myopic about it, around 70% of Americans are readers if you count audiobooks.
It’s awkward to categorize your own creative work. But if I’m forced to, I think of myself as an Indigenous paranormal novelist, because I’m just not into the slasher stuff, though I completely appreciate it in other writers, like my Indigenous brother from another mother, Stephen Graham Jones. I’m more interested in questions about the afterlife. Questions about alternative realities—which you can see with my obsession with portals and haunted mirrors. When it really comes down to it, I’m a nerd.
I’m big on making sure that I include, in any interview that I can, resources for upcoming writers when it comes to craft. I think that horror writers aren’t always asked about craft, because it’s assumed that everything we do is just “fun” and doesn’t have substance. And obviously that’s not true; I’ve admired every single one of your books in terms of craft. Obviously, fiction writers of all stripes have to worry about characterization, language, and structure. But as horror writers, what do you feel is an additional issue, when it comes to craft, that you’ve had to work to build into your fiction? Carolina, I know as a fellow writer of color, we’re often not asked about craft as well, if you want to give us your thoughts first.
Flórez-Cerchiaro
Atmosphere is the heartbeat of horror—it’s what transforms simple words on paper into an immersive and unforgettable experience. Crafting atmosphere involves far more than just describing eerie settings. It’s about how those surroundings feel, how they affect characters, and how they amplify the horror. Atmosphere is something I have to layer in with every revision pass; it doesn’t necessarily come to me while writing the first draft. In the early stages, I’m often more focused on getting the plot and the characters down, so the atmosphere can feel more like afterthoughts or placeholders. But as I go back through the manuscript, I make sure to weave the atmosphere more intentionally into the fabric of the story. I pay close attention to where the mood needs to shift and where the environment can enhance the emotional tension. It’s about finding ways to integrate subtle sensory details into the action, dialogue, monologue to amplify characters’ emotions.
Sometimes, it’s just about removing excess descriptions that don’t serve the tone. I’ve learned that less is often more in horror—leaving space for the reader’s imagination to fill in the gaps makes the atmosphere more potent.
The revision process allows me to fine-tune and balance atmosphere without overextending when it comes to word count, because it’s also important to keep the pacing tight and avoid getting bogged down with unnecessary details. I’ve learned that every detail should serve the story and move the plot forward rather than just filling space. With each pass, I get closer to the right balance, ensuring that the atmosphere isn’t just there for the effect but is an integral part of the story’s emotional tapestry. It’s a constant refinement, making sure that every detail works together to pull the reader into the world of the story, heightening the horror in subtle, layered ways.
Harrison
Thank you for asking this question! I think the only thing about crafting a story that is easier within the horror genre is conflict. Horror forces you to think about conflict up front—is it a zombie apocalypse, a giant kaiju, a bloodthirsty slasher, a hoard of soul-sucking demons? There’s inherent tension in horror. But if your reader doesn’t care about the characters, then there are no stakes. If your pacing is off, your reader will get bored. If your sentences are sloppy, your reader can get confused. Craft is just as vital in genre fiction.
One challenge I think about often while writing horror is, How can I make my reader understand my character’s bad decisions? We all make bad decisions, but it’s so easy to backseat drive in horror. “Well, I wouldn’t go in that obviously haunted house!” Maybe not, but then there’s no story. I need my reader to relate enough to my protagonist to understand why and how they get into their horror pickle. It’s not getting my reader to empathize with my protagonist or like them, which are totally different challenges; it’s getting them to understand motive.
I write close first person, which puts my readers inside the head of my protagonist, so they know what they’re thinking and how they’re justifying their behavior. I also layer in as much as I can to ground my protagonist. My books often open with my protagonist just going about their day, rolling out of bed in the morning, working a shift at their shitty job, going out for the night to let off some steam. I’m looking for every opportunity to make them relatable, so when they do something unrelatable like go to a shady party and get turned into a vampire, my reader can suspend their disbelief and stay in it, stay with me.
Tremblay
Well, thank you! I am not a writing teacher, and I didn’t study it in a formal setting. I know, you can’t tell, right? Anyway, I honestly don’t approach writing horror fiction any differently than I do nonhorror pieces, not in terms of the craft aspects you mentioned. I focus on making a character’s experience read as realistic as possible (even, or especially, if their reality has been touched by the supernatural/fantastic), and I focus on moving the reader emotionally. I try to make the stories replicate—and if I do a good enough job, expand upon—what it feels like to be alive now. What better way is there to dig into the horrible now than writing a horror story?
Wurth
I love what Rachel is talking about in terms of believability, and what Carolina is talking about in terms of atmosphere. Though I’m huge on structure and plot, because those were things I was taught to be dismissive of as a writer in academia, and I do think people need to read books that discuss how these things work, as a horror writer, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to revise because something just didn’t make sense in regards to its believability. As Rachel’s putting it, and I’ve heard Grady Hendrix talk about the same issue in interviews, why would someone stay in a haunted house? But you want them to because a book about a haunted house is cool. My last novel was an absolute bear in terms of plot, and I think I maybe succeeded 80% in that believability factor.
But as Carolina is talking about, I think that’s part of why I love horror. To put it in contemporary terms, it’s the vibes. I love old castles. I love haunted objects. I love the idea of ghosts, even though if I encountered one in reality, I’m not sure I’d never sleep with the lights on again.
Considering that horror is one of the genres of literature that has been denigrated over the years, why would you say that you’re drawn to it? Why is it a genre that uniquely speaks to what you want to say in your work? And to be clear, I don’t think of “literary” as a genre, nor do I think of “genre” as a genre. Paul, fellow horror author Gabino Iglesias asked you when he interviewed you in the L.A. Times a little bit about this intersection of literary and horror, and why this genre is the one that speaks to you.
Tremblay
Without getting into the long history of the pulps, class, and academic reputation, I absolutely agree there is nothing innate within genre fiction—specifically horror—that precludes it from employing the components associated with literary fiction.
Why does it speak to me? It would take many more words than I have here to explain. I have a hard time understanding how someone isn’t emotionally and intellectually drawn to horror. That said, all art attempts to communicate and reveal a truth while asking difficult questions like “What decisions are we going to make now?” and “How do we live through this?” I’m drawn to how horror can pick at those questions in transgressive, challenging ways.
Harrison
For me, horror is catharsis. It’s a place I can explore my relationship with my fear and anxiety. It’s a place I can be angry and jealous and vindictive and downright vicious—all the things society tells me I can’t be. It’s a primal scream and an ugly cry and a wicked cackle. I write supernatural horror, so there’s an element of power. We spend a lot of our lives feeling powerless. To get to be powerful on the page is thrilling and fun and pure catharsis.
Flórez-Cerchiaro
Horror is a way for me to reflect on the darkest parts of the world and ourselves, and to ask questions about how we confront, deal with, and sometimes succumb to those fears. It allows me to tackle uncomfortable truths without having to sugarcoat them. Horror has this rawness to it—it’s a genre that doesn’t shy away from the ugly, the grotesque, or the unsettling. This is exactly what I want to explore in my work: the ways in which fear can manifest in everyday life, the ways in which we are all haunted by something, whether it’s our past that refuses to stay buried, our culture, our family legacy, or the unknown future.
I think horror as a genre is uniquely suited to communicate things that feel larger than life, yet intimately personal, whether it’s the monstrous things outside us, or the monsters we carry within.
Wurth
I love what Paul is saying in terms of the big question that horror asks, which is, How do we live through this? It’s a question I ask myself a lot these days.
Like I said, I do love the vibes. But if I’m to go further, I’ve always been the kid, and then the adult, that would’ve stepped into the TARDIS or opened the creaking door even though there was clearly something haunted and terrible behind it or gotten on that spaceship to an unknown galaxy. And I do plan on writing something that’s more along the lines of science fiction and/or fantasy. However, what I loved about horror when I first started writing it was that I can talk about some of the darker issues that I talked about before (when I was writing literary realism), especially as an urban Indigenous person, like lateral violence, but I could do it with all the cool nerdy stuff alongside. Like portals. Love a portal.
In an interview a while back, Silvia Moreno-Garcia said that in between the current renaissance and the last, there was a real pushback against horror and that a lot of authors—such as Thomas Harris, author of The Silence of the Lambs—were sold as thriller writers when otherwise they might’ve been sold as horror authors during a different era. This is probably an obvious question, but what is it about horror that seems to intrigue so many and yet completely repulses others? And why this renaissance now?
Harrison
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that horror surged during Trump’s first term, and particularly during the pandemic. Unfortunately, this is the state of the world we find ourselves in. We’re in an age where we can witness atrocities happening simultaneously in real time. We’re exposed to everything, and we’re just not wired for it. We need coping mechanisms. We need understanding. Horror offers that to us. It’s interesting—Gen X and beyond generally don’t seem to stick their nose up at horror the way previous generations did. I wonder if technology plays a factor in how horror is being received now. Baby boomers grew up in a world where they could be ignorant of real-life horror. I’m rambling, but I do find it fascinating to think about horror in a broader context.
Tremblay
Ten years ago, my novel A Head Full of Ghosts had “psychological suspense” on its cover. Publishing’s memory of the crash still echoes.
As far as the repulsion goes, I think that horror is often associated with its least successful (in terms of achieving art) pieces, usually a movie. Also, since horror relies upon some sort of transgression, when it goes awry, it, um, tends to go memorably awry.
Why the renaissance now? What I said for question one is a huge part of the reason. Also, a genre stigma is still there, but it’s not what it used to be. Readers in the 2020s have been exposed to the pop cultural stew that has mixed genre for decades now, along with the near ubiquity of Stephen King and his influence on multiple generations of readers and writers. I also think the renaissance of horror films in the 2010s—in particular Jordan Peele’s movies and work from independent studios like A24—and the culture at large being willing to take those excellent movies seriously helped to do the same for horror literature.
Flórez-Cerchiaro
Horror is a genre that fascinates many but can certainly repulse others because it taps into the primal emotions that we often try to avoid: fear, dread, and the unknown. On the one hand, there’s an undeniable attraction to the thrill of being scared in a controlled environment. It allows people to test their limits, to experience fear from a distance and to feel a sense of catharsis once they’ve made it through. This safe fear can be exhilarating for many. But for others, horror is simply too much to bear. I think the genre can feel like an invasion of personal space, pushing boundaries that they’re not ready or willing to cross. It’s uncomfortable by design and that discomfort can lead to a rejection of the genre entirely.
As for the current renaissance in horror, I think there’s a growing appetite for stories that embrace complexity and ambiguity. Horror allows for subversion and experimentation, and as people’s taste has evolved, so has the genre. It’s no longer about mindless scares, but about stories that explore deeper themes.
There’s an openness to diverse voices, a hunger for stories that mix entertainment with deeper social commentary, which is making horror feel more relevant than ever, drawing in audiences who may have previously turned away from the genre.
In a world where the unknown feels ever more present—whether through political uncertainty, global crises, or personal challenges—horror offers a way to grapple with fear in a more tangible way.
Wurth
I have to admit, since I generated these questions, that I’m particularly pleased/tickled that I was right, as Paul is talking about how his work was labeled as psychological suspense ten years ago! In any case, I have to agree with Paul, too, on the idea that film is a deep influence. Film is just more immediate. And especially when it comes to horror when people think of it, they immediately go to the worst of the slasher films, although, of course, worse versus best is arbitrary, and very subjective to the viewer. Like Paul, I’m a huge fan of Peele’s work and a huge fan of (at least most of) what A24 has done. I watch horror films pretty compulsively. And it’s clear that they very much shape the perception of horror as a whole.
And I have to agree with Carolina and Paul—horror is so easily receptive when it comes to talking about transgression.
It’s really hard to say why some people love it and why some people don’t. As Rachel is noting, it’s a coping mechanism for some. But I have seen rather hilarious reactions to horror on social media, where folks have claimed that anybody who writes or consumes horror is inevitably sick. But as somebody who has belonged to a lot of different writing communities, though of course there are exceptions, the horror community has often seemed like the least “sick.”
Speaking of labels, what would you say is the difference between crime fiction and horror fiction? I’ve often thought the difference was that speculative element, that supernatural addition that makes something horror, but there are plenty of, for example, serial killer novels, as talked about in the last question, that would ride that line. Carolina, like my last two novels, your work has crime at the center of the plot. Do you want to start us off on this particular question?
Flórez-Cerchiaro
I think there’s a lot of overlapping between them, especially in the current literary era where genre is blurring more and more, but I’d say the main difference lies in their central focus.
Crime fiction primarily centers around a crime and follows the investigation, the ins and outs of it, or the pursuit of justice. It tends to focus more on logic, reasoning, and unraveling the truth behind said crime, usually providing a sense of resolution by the end.
Horror isn’t particularly interested investigations or resolution in the traditional sense, and there’s typically less reasoning or logical explanation compared to crime fiction. It often leaves questions unanswered, and it’s more concerned in exploring the emotional and psychological impact of fear, often through unsettling or horrific situations. Characters may face terrifying, inexplicable forces—whether ghosts, monsters, or psychological torment—that don’t follow the rules of logic or reason.
The fear in horror is driven by uncertainty, making it more about emotional response and visceral experience than solving a mystery or understanding the cause behind said fear. The monsters or the antagonistic forces in horror often symbolize deeper, existential fears—whether personal or societal.
Wurth
I have to admit the scholar in me adores Carolina’s answer because it’s so concrete. I think that when people start to bandy about terms like “genre” and “literary” and it stops making any sense, especially when it comes to fiction, you want to ask yourself what the plot is pointed at. And as many have noted, though I kind of like the idea of that horror has at least some element of the supernatural, for the most part it’s fiction that’s uniquely oriented around an emotion, which is fear.
Harrison
In all honesty, I’m not sure I read enough crime fiction to answer this question competently. I do agree with your assessment of the speculative element being the differentiating factor.
Tremblay
Horror and crime are close cousins, I think, with noir and its doomed protagonists being an even closer cousin. Their intent of affect, generally, is different. A horror story—whether or not it involves the supernatural—aims to unmoor the reader from their reality, but hopefully in a way that makes the story feel hyperreal.
Wurth
Since horror is often now placed under the umbrella of speculative, which also includes fantasy and science fiction, are those genres that you read? Would you couch it under that umbrella?
Harrison
I love reading fantasy and sci-fi! I personally would put horror, fantasy, and science fiction under the same umbrella, but it’d have to be one of those ridiculously huge umbrellas with a lot of space underneath. Very roomy. Maybe not an umbrella, but under the bleachers. We’re all the kids under the bleachers. We hang out, but we’ve got different things going on. Not to be a narc, but fantasy is definitely smoking pot.
Tremblay
I try to read as widely as possible. When I was younger, I read a lot more fantasy and science fiction than I have lately. That’s more of a reflection of being in a cool place where I get sent a ton of horror novels to read. These days when I’m not reading horror, I’ve been gravitating toward reading dark literary fiction.
Wurth
Rachel’s given possibly the funniest answer that I’ve read in years about fantasy writers, which is part of why I think I started as a fantasy geek. I loved and love how wonderfully imaginative the work is.
Like Paul, I did read a lot of what you’d call dark literary fiction for many years. I only read literary fiction because the environment around me really did try to kill the nerd in me, and as stubborn as I am, I let it for a long time. And then I read Lev Grossman. And then I read [Arthur C. Clarke’s] Rendezvous with Rama. And then I started watching Doctor Who again, and it was over. I think that when you take away the cops and the spaceships and the elves, you do just have the basic elements of fiction. And when someone can pull that off, I think it’s really something. But I’m veering more and more into science fiction, fantasy, and horror these days. I just missed that sense of another world.
Flórez-Cerchiaro
I do read both, but I gravitate more toward science fiction, especially to the first-contact subgenre; I’m fascinated with how it reflects anxieties about humanity’s vulnerability in the face of something vastly more powerful or incomprehensible. The fear of being misunderstood, manipulated, or wiped out by an alien civilization resonates with our natural weariness toward things that are unfamiliar or beyond our control. I find it terrifying!
I think, like science fiction and fantasy, horror can imagine worlds, creatures, circumstances that deviate from every day, often in unsettling and terrifying ways, so in that sense I think horror belongs in the speculative umbrella. But at the same time, there are many instances where not all horror should be labeled as speculative, especially when it is strictly grounded in real scenarios. In short, it depends on the context. If the horror includes elements that stretch beyond what we normally experience in the real world, even if it feels grounded, then it might still be considered speculative. Otherwise, it would be more purely “real-life” horror without any speculative aspect to it.
Wurth
Where, in your opinion, is horror going from here?
Harrison
There’s some talk of “Will the bubble burst?” I don’t think so. And I’m saying this as a pessimist! I sincerely believe horror will continue to thrive and bring in new voices and new stories and new readers for those stories. There’s something for everyone in the genre, and I think the more it expands, the more people will find a way in, the more it will expand, so on and so forth. We can’t look back at previous horror booms, the ebbs and flows. That was then, this is now. The world needs horror like Gotham needs Batman. I’ll end with that.
Tremblay
Oh, I have no idea, and that’s exciting. I can’t wait to see where it goes.
Flórez-Cerchiaro
I think horror will continue to push boundaries in both style and substance. It’ll become more inclusive, reflective, and experimental. This expansion will continue to make horror more relevant, as it keeps evolving, while welcoming and engaging readers and consumers in new and innovative ways.
Wurth
When I’ve written about Native American poetry and fiction, I’ve talked about waves. About how the content and form changes (and how the community changes), and how each new generation of Native writers has a slightly different set of priorities. And I think it’s similar with horror.
Overall, I would mainly agree with Carolina and Rachel. I think it’s getting bigger and weirder and more diverse, and I don’t see it stopping anytime soon. I think world politics is growing ever more terrifying, and at the same time, all of these big questions around technology and its horrors, and how that intersects with death and culture, is about to become even more eminent.
Carolina Flórez-Cerchiaro is a Colombian author of genre-bending speculative fiction. Her debut gothic horror novel, Bochica, pitched as Mexican Gothic meets The Shining, is releasing on May 13 from Atria/Primero Sueño Press.
Rachel Harrison is the USA Today bestselling author of So Thirsty, Black Sheep, Such Sharp Teeth, Cackle, and The Return. Her next novel, Play Nice, is out this September.
Paul Tremblay has won the Bram Stoker, British Fantasy, Sheridan Le Fanu, and Massachusetts Book awards and is the New York Times bestselling author of Horror Movie: A Novel, The Pallbearers Club, Growing Things and Other Stories, and a Head Full of Ghosts. His novel The Cabin at the End of the World was adapted into the Universal Pictures film Knock at the Cabin. His essays and short fiction have appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, the Los Angeles Times, and numerous “year’s best” anthologies. He lives outside of Boston, Massachusetts, with his family and has a master’s degree in mathematics.
Erika T. Wurth’s novel White Horse is a New York Times Editors’ Pick, a Good Morning America Buzz Pick, and an Indie Next, Target Book of the Month, and BOTM pick. She is both a Kenyon and Sewanee fellow; has published in The Kenyon Review, Buzzfeed, and The Writer’s Chronicle; and is a narrative artist for the Meow Wolf Denver installation. She is an urban Native of Apache/Chickasaw/Cherokee descent. She lives in Denver with her partner, stepkids, and two incredibly fluffy dogs. Her next novel, The Haunting of Room 904, came out this March.
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