My favorite time of year is here! Time for spooky stories and scary movies. Time for cozy fires and falling leaves. There are certain stories I read every year around this time: Something by Shirley Jackson (usually The Haunting of Hill House) and something by Mary Stewart (either Nine Coaches Waiting or This Rough Magic). This year I am also rereading Lost Among The Living by Simone St. James and Named of the Dragon by Susanna Kearsley.

What do all these books have in common? They’re all gothics of one sort or another. A few nights ago, I went to hear John Connolly speak about—among other things—the history of Irish fiction. One person in the audience asked what exactly constituted a gothic. The concensus was “it has to have an ancient, ruined castle.”

I tell you, my friends, I had to grit my teeth. Sure, the ruins are part of it. But only a tiny, tiny part. I came home and started writing my thoughts and as it turns out, I have many. Many.  

I have given talks on the history of the gothic. But the history is so rich, so complicated, that I had written only 1,500 words when I thought “oh, crap. This is way too long for a blong post. But if you’re interested in such things, next week the post will be up. All 1,500+ words of it.