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biography
 The
night was dark and stormy. Cold wind chittered through the trees and made the
shutters shudder while dark clouds hawked and spat, soaking the little log cabin
in the woods. Within, near the warmth of the fireplace, a woman endured a long
labor. Hours passed, the storm raged. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning so bright it
blinded the owls and spiders, struck outside the window. The woman screamed, but
her voice was lost in the crack and boom of thunder that shook the cabin and
even the missile silo hidden deep beneath it.
And that was how I was born, which is pretty peculiar since this was an August
night in Los Angeles.
Frequently, someone wearing a wary expression asks: "Why do you write horror?"
Okay. That's really two questions and I'm going to answer both. (1) "Why am I a
writer?" isn't a bad question, in fact, it's pretty impressive. But all that
goes out the window when you add (2) "Why horror?" The answer to (1) is that I
was born with a drive to write. It's a calling. The answer to (2) is I've been
fascinated by the occult all my life. Okay?
All right, but "horror" still sounds a little ooky to most people. So to put
this in perspective, find an MD, a proctologist, for instance. Ask him why he
became a doctor. If he loves his work, there's a very good chance he will say he
was born with a drive to become a doctor, a calling to the profession. But if
you ask why he's a proctologist and he tells you he's been fascinated by
assholes all his life, well, think about it. That "horror" stuff doesn't sound
so weird now, does it?
Didn't think so.
Now, back to the story. Even though I was never locked in a closet with a
plastic Jesus, nor molested by Satanists, (although I once molested a plastic
Jesus) I quickly developed a fascination with the macabre, perhaps aided by my
mother, who began reading fantasy classics to me while I was still an infant. By
first grade, I was writing ghost stories. I was also telling them, often digging
grave-shaped mounds and spilling red paint in the backyard to prove my words.
Other kids' parents sometimes complained, and my mother always promised them she
would talk to me about it. She did, too, explaining how to be careful when doing
such things. And then we'd giggle. That was some sweet reinforcement. So, anyway
. . .
By third grade, I'd found Ray Bradbury. I spent the next few years reading all
the science fiction and horror I could find. When I was eleven, I discovered
Shirley Jackson's Haunting of Hill House. And that was that. Except that I'd
also just discovered MAD Magazine, which was as much an epiphany as Bradbury and
Jackson. I spent the hormonal years of my youth writing horror, satire, and
shredding politicians, which I guess would be defined as horror-satire.
I had a journalism scholarship to USC, but wasn't particularly fond of telling
the truth. It didn't fit with the credo I'd adopted in early puberty, Mark
Twain's own advice to writers: "Get the facts first, then distort them as much
as you please."
Soon, I married Damien Thorne, a handsome poli-sci major specializing in
psychological warfare at prestigious Devlin University. After college, I tried
my hand at various occupations, getting bored and moving on every year or so
until I finally ended up back in journalism, where it became harder and harder
not to concoct news instead of report it. My darling Damien suggested I try
writing a novel. Light bulbs burst over my head. (We had a poltergeist at the
time.) No one ever suggested to me that my childhood dream of writing books
could be realized. Damien's belief changed all that.
So I wrote a book and sold it and another, using the name Chris Curry to hide
my gender and my married name. I wrote four books (see FAQs), then came out of
the closet as Tamara Thorne after my first and favorite editor moved to
Kensington Books. (I couldn't work for him as Chris Curry since that name was
still contracted to the other house.)
Personal Stuff? Okay, but only the clean parts. In addition to the occult, my
interests include folklore, myth, shameless puns and not understanding quantum
physics. I love to be spooked, excited, or driven to helpless laughter by life
or books or movies. I love ragtime music, whoopee cushions, and putting catnip
in my pockets. What don't I like? Missionaries who dare to ring my bell to try
to alter my beliefs or lack thereof, and politicians who want to tell me what
personal freedoms I should let them take away. Both must be laughed at well and
often. I also dislike organ meat, but when I laugh at it, it doesn't get huffy
and slink away like the morality police. So I resort to violence. Ah, the sweet
sounds of the piteous screams of the liver as the kitty cats rip it to shreds
and devour it with bloody fangs.
I think that pretty much sums things up.
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