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modernzorker's review against another edition
5.0
Despite a reading speed measured in fighter jet terms, I took two entire months to eat my way through this mastodon of a book. And make no mistake, this sucker is a beast. The 612-page count is already impressive, but when you factor in that each page is roughly 7" wide by 10" tall, printed on high-quality stock, you're left with a tome over two inches thick weighing a shelf-groaning four pounds. It wouldn't surprise me to learn the ink used to print this monster wasn't industry-manufactured, but rather milked from several thousand squids all kept in a perpetual state of terror.
There are tribute anthologies, and then there's In Laymon's Terms.
Laymon deserves every last page of it, and then some.
It's impossible to overstate Richard Laymon's contributions, not just to the horror scene (a contribution which by itself is legendary), but to literature. Laymon presided over the Horror Writers of America with an eye towards making horror fun again. The evidence is all right here in these pages, spilled out not just in the stories which take their cues from the kind of situations and fast-moving prose Laymon used as his calling card, but also the 'before' pieces, where each writer shares memories of how they knew Dick.
These remembrances are the true soul of the book. The stories are, of course, all excellent homages to the life and career of the Splatterpunk's Splatterpunk. But the personal memories, the accounts of sometimes little more than a phone call or letter or forum post from Laymon which helped them through some difficult time, gave them encouragement to keep trying when the rejections piled up, made them laugh or cringe (sometimes both) in regards to some joke, or a smile and handshake at a horror 'Con: the portrait of the man which emerges on the other side is nothing short of extraordinary.
To read Laymon's stories is to enter a world much like our own, just a few degrees more depraved, more licentious, and more adventuresome. To read these memories, however, is to enter a world a few degrees kinder. Because for every critique of Laymon's writing, for every charge of oversexed protagonists and casual misogyny leveled at him by his fans and non-fans alike, all the slings and arrows cannot pierce the cloak of truth that Laymon was, by all accounts, one of the most genuinely caring dudes on the face of the planet. Not just to his wife and daughter, not just to close, personal friends like Dean Koontz and his family, but to pretty much everybody who encountered him.
Many of the writers featured in this anthology attribute their desire to write, especially their desire to write horror, more or less directly to Laymon. Either they read something he wrote and thought it was the coolest thing since erect nipples and wanted to get some of that action, or they got the chance to interact with him and enjoyed the benefit of his council, encouragement, and wit.
Laymon did something few other writers accomplished -- he made writing horror fun. He on-boarded dozens of new authors, mentored his peers, and in at least a few instances, directly solicited work from them for anthologies he was editing. But most of all, he delighted in the depravity in a way you simply cannot unless you're in on the joke. Laymon wasn't only in on the joke, he was perpetuating it, updating it for the times, and getting others to understand and profit from it.
He cared, genuinely cared, about not just his own career but everybody else's. I'm sure some of that stemmed from a fervent desire to see no one else treated the way Warner treated him, tanking his career in the US in the early 80's. But the other side of that was just a guy who had a blast writing, and wanted everyone else to have the same wild ride as he did.
As of next month (February, 2021), it will be two decades since Laymon's untimely death. One cannot come out on the other side of this anthology/tribute without realizing what a treasure the world lost. We're left to wonder what rumps could have swished under skirts. We're left to wonder what other monsters, human and otherwise, lay now unconjured by his fevered imagination. What plots are left unrealized in his stark, B-movie-style presentation, which rarely lets you slow down to consider just how ridiculous things are getting?
We will never know.
But if the pieces lovingly etched between the covers of In Laymon's Terms are any indication, Laymon definitely left the world a much better place for his having been in it. And maybe a little sleazier. A little weirder. A little more flush with protagonists clad in chamois shirts and sporting inappropriate hard-ons. And if I'm being honest, I took two months just to savor all that. Laymon was worth every drop of ink.
Even if it wasn't truly produced by horrified cephalopods.
There are tribute anthologies, and then there's In Laymon's Terms.
Laymon deserves every last page of it, and then some.
It's impossible to overstate Richard Laymon's contributions, not just to the horror scene (a contribution which by itself is legendary), but to literature. Laymon presided over the Horror Writers of America with an eye towards making horror fun again. The evidence is all right here in these pages, spilled out not just in the stories which take their cues from the kind of situations and fast-moving prose Laymon used as his calling card, but also the 'before' pieces, where each writer shares memories of how they knew Dick.
These remembrances are the true soul of the book. The stories are, of course, all excellent homages to the life and career of the Splatterpunk's Splatterpunk. But the personal memories, the accounts of sometimes little more than a phone call or letter or forum post from Laymon which helped them through some difficult time, gave them encouragement to keep trying when the rejections piled up, made them laugh or cringe (sometimes both) in regards to some joke, or a smile and handshake at a horror 'Con: the portrait of the man which emerges on the other side is nothing short of extraordinary.
To read Laymon's stories is to enter a world much like our own, just a few degrees more depraved, more licentious, and more adventuresome. To read these memories, however, is to enter a world a few degrees kinder. Because for every critique of Laymon's writing, for every charge of oversexed protagonists and casual misogyny leveled at him by his fans and non-fans alike, all the slings and arrows cannot pierce the cloak of truth that Laymon was, by all accounts, one of the most genuinely caring dudes on the face of the planet. Not just to his wife and daughter, not just to close, personal friends like Dean Koontz and his family, but to pretty much everybody who encountered him.
Many of the writers featured in this anthology attribute their desire to write, especially their desire to write horror, more or less directly to Laymon. Either they read something he wrote and thought it was the coolest thing since erect nipples and wanted to get some of that action, or they got the chance to interact with him and enjoyed the benefit of his council, encouragement, and wit.
Laymon did something few other writers accomplished -- he made writing horror fun. He on-boarded dozens of new authors, mentored his peers, and in at least a few instances, directly solicited work from them for anthologies he was editing. But most of all, he delighted in the depravity in a way you simply cannot unless you're in on the joke. Laymon wasn't only in on the joke, he was perpetuating it, updating it for the times, and getting others to understand and profit from it.
He cared, genuinely cared, about not just his own career but everybody else's. I'm sure some of that stemmed from a fervent desire to see no one else treated the way Warner treated him, tanking his career in the US in the early 80's. But the other side of that was just a guy who had a blast writing, and wanted everyone else to have the same wild ride as he did.
As of next month (February, 2021), it will be two decades since Laymon's untimely death. One cannot come out on the other side of this anthology/tribute without realizing what a treasure the world lost. We're left to wonder what rumps could have swished under skirts. We're left to wonder what other monsters, human and otherwise, lay now unconjured by his fevered imagination. What plots are left unrealized in his stark, B-movie-style presentation, which rarely lets you slow down to consider just how ridiculous things are getting?
We will never know.
But if the pieces lovingly etched between the covers of In Laymon's Terms are any indication, Laymon definitely left the world a much better place for his having been in it. And maybe a little sleazier. A little weirder. A little more flush with protagonists clad in chamois shirts and sporting inappropriate hard-ons. And if I'm being honest, I took two months just to savor all that. Laymon was worth every drop of ink.
Even if it wasn't truly produced by horrified cephalopods.
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