Although I have had an abiding interest in horror and dark fantasy since I was a teenager, I have never read much cosmic horror. I have read more Lovecraft-inspired fiction than actual works by H.P. Lovecraft himself, and am probably not as well-versed in many of the conventions utilized by writers when they try their hands at cosmic horror.

Laird Barron has been characterised by many critics as being, essentially, the new Lovecraft. I don’t think this sort of pigeonhole assessment does justice to Barron’s work, as he is doing much more than updating the mythos of some dead writer. In The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All, Barron concocts a melange of old-school pulp fiction, insightful characterisation and supernatural dread that is both unique and profoundly enjoyable. If this is what cosmic horror is capable of, well…color me impressed.

I found myself immediately drawn to the stories in The Beautiful Thing… because Barron frequently peppers his sentences with colons, semicolons and dashes–especially dashes– as I do, and his work (like mine) is dialogue heavy. We also both enjoy mixing genres: I have been working on a weird detective novel (between short stories), and most of the stories in Barron’s collection are genre hybrids–”Hand of Glory,” “The Carrion Gods In Their Heaven,” and “Jaws of Saturn” have crime elements, while both “Blackwood’s Baby” and “Vastation” could be considered westerns. It’s somewhat validating when you discover a writer who does what you’re doing, only at a much more accomplished level, as it gives you hope that you could someday have success with your work.

As for what we do differently, and what I can learn from Barron’s work? Plenty. Barron knows that horror needs atmosphere to be successful, and he provides that–in spades. Almost every story in Barron’s collection is of novelette length or longer, and Barron uses those pages to slowly develop menace. Much of this is achieved through the utilization of setting in a manner almost as accomplished as someone like Elizabeth Hand (who I consider a master at creating evocative settings). Many of Barron’s stories have historical settings, centering especially on the period between the World Wars. Barron limns these settings expertly, weaving actual events and historical personages (albeit obscure–ever heard of Eadweard Muybridge?) into his fiction. Barron also uses language to make his settings come alive, choosing vocabulary that was popular in the early part of the twentieth century, but not in vogue now. I tend to look up words I don’t know while I’m reading (most e-readers have a dictionary function, thank God), and many of these words that Barron used were listed as “archaic,” or “informal” (the word git,when referring to a contemptible person, for example). This added to the otherness of the world of the story, made me believe in it.

Barron also uses the story-within-a-story technique to create atmosphere. In more than half of the stories in The Beautiful Thing…, a character tells a disturbing tale about the history of a place or a mysterious character. Some might consider this sort of device heavy-handed, but it works for me: it complements the pulp tradition Barron’s stories evoke and provides the layers of background that make the story more frightening.

Barron’s creation of atmosphere extends to the development of his characters. Like the locales he invents, Barron’s characters have histories. Both “Blackwood’s Baby” and “The Carrion Gods In Their Heaven” deploy protagonists with rich backstories that play into the denouement of those pieces, and the first half of “Hand of Glory” is all backstory (maybe a little too much backstory, in this case). And although Barron’s main characters are often hard men in harsh environments (as would befit his Alaskan upbringing), his protagonists also include a quartet of female high school teachers (“The Renfield Girls”), a lesbian couple (“The Carrion Gods In Their Heaven”) and a serial killer/spy/corporate shill (“The Siphon”). Barron’s use of varied protagonists helps distinguish the individual stories, so they don’t feel so samey. It also serves as a challenge to a writer like me, to be willing to breathe life into characters that really don’t resemble me.

Finally, Barron avoids over-explanation when developing the supernatural backdrops for his stories. He understands the importance of ambiguity in horror fiction, and patently refuses to explain away all his mysteries. Most of these stories deal with godlike forces impossible to totally comprehend or contain; seeing these forces only in glimpses actually makes them appear more powerful and more menacing.

Barron’s collection may be my first comprehensive exposure to cosmic horror, but it certainly won’t be my last. Not only am I excited about reading more of Barron’s work (and writers similar to him), I am excited about trying my hand at cosmic horror, creating my own darkened cosmology, my own personal mythos. That, I think, is the highest of praise.