Rick McCammon, A True Southern Gentleman

What an honor to write this about Rick McCammon. What a privilege to announce the well-earned and well-deserved recognition he is about to receive, that of Grandmaster of Horror from The Horror Writer’s Association. I know how it feels. I was fortunate enough to receive this same honor with the late Rick Hautala.

Rick McCammon, who is better known as Robert R. McCammon, shot onto the scene without a lot of bumps and false starts. He and his career were full born, like Athena from the head of Zeus. He wrote one cool book after another and quickly acquired a following that was leading him to bestseller success, and then he morphed from good horror writer to great writer who sometimes wrote horror, and along came Boy’s Life, an actual masterpiece of literature, and for my taste, his best novel. Which is not to say good books didn’t follow. One did pretty quick on the heels of Boy’s Life, and it’s my second favorite of his books, Gone South, and then…

Well, Rick fell off the map for over a decade. Not a peep. No cry from the well, no shriek from the clouds, just gone, baby gone. But not forgotten. He sort of became the J.D. Salinger of pop literature.

And then, thank goodness he returned, as good as ever (better), writing quirky historical horror tales showing us he was just resting, not lying in state.

It is so good to have him back in the field, to have him writing again, to be able to visit again. My wife and I met him in an elevator years back. We were discussing some matter, and Rick turned and said, “That must be Joe and Karen Lansdale. I recognize the accent.”

We had never met, but our accents connected us. We were like ducks out of water, and to tell you the truth, it’s good to hear another Southern voice now and again when you’re among nice people who turn their heads like curious dogs when you speak, thinking, “Is that English?”

Anyway. That was our first meeting, and it led to Rick telling us he had this great idea for an organization for horror writers, which he called H.O.W.L., the Horror and Occult Writers League, a name I still prefer. The only problem was Rick had the idea and not the time. He turned it over to my wife Karen, and she ran with it. Began by making crude mimeographed and stapled newsletters, sending them out to an enthusiastic and growing crowd of interested parties. This resulted in what is now known as The Horror Writers Association. It was Rick’s brain child and Karen was the shield carrier. Later Dean Koontz arrived with an army to assist us, but that’s another story.

But it was that elevator meeting I remember best about Rick, and we immediately became friends. Things have changed since that time. Rick and I are older, with less hair and more wrinkles, but when we met again at Salt Lake City, it was as if we had merely stepped out of the room those many years ago, and had now stepped back in to continue our conversation from what seemed like moments before. Oh, there was some new material there. Our kids. Careers were different. But it felt the same.

Yet, here’s the main point, the why-we-are-here moment. Rick is one of the most important writers of horror of all time, and would be important to the field if for no other reason than he came up with the idea for an organization to honor others in this strange line of work, a creation that
has led to a once-a-year meeting at what I like to think of as a giant café. That alone would make him important.

And then there are the books, of course. Great books. He is a master. It’s so good to have him back. It’s so good to be reading him again. And it is so good to honor him.

No one deserves this recognition more.

I love you, Rick. Enjoy the hell out of your well-earned acknowledgment. You deserve it.