See, I know Tananarive Due. Have known her for years. Have read her fiction, even published some of it. She’s a sweet, upright woman. Journalist, fiction writer, strong black woman. Strong woman, period. Loving wife and daughter. Fierce mama, as mamas must be. Strong roots in the civil rights struggle. A good woman.
But maybe I forgot something along the way, because from the first line of the first story in this collection, my arms were prickling with unease. At the end of the story, I found myself gaping at the page and sitting up in bed so I could snug my back right up against the wall for its safe solidity. The second story contained an image which, like the mother in the story, I will never be able to unsee. Eerily, a part of me doesn’t want to. And the twist . . . how can a good child be such an unsettling thing? By the third story, I was reading between my fingers, captivated by Tananarive’s gentle characters and the lush sensoria of her landscapes, completely caught by stories of the most mundane situations tumbling end over end into a darkness all the more eerie because it all feels so normal.
The best horror is simultaneously unflinching and humorous. It gazes calmly at the fragility of life, at how easily good intentions can fray if the face of the Void opens its crazy eyes and looks back at you. Good horror examines all this, and then it giggles. I know Tananarive well enough to see that she’s writing about the possibilities that terrify her, that would terrify anyone. Of the inevitability of pain and death. Of having thoughts you know you shouldn’t. Of losing what you love the most. Of hurting the ones you love. Of the ones you love hurting you. What I hadn’t realized before is how playful her writing is, like juggling with butchers’ knives.
So yes, a good woman. A good woman who dares look at scary things. And a bloody good writer.
Nalo Hopkinson