The first thing to understand about Bruce Taylor is that he’s an esoteric original. He doesn’t copy other writers and doesn’t care a whit about commercialism, though if you look deeply enough you might think you see sprinklings of Ray Bradbury and Franz Kafka, set in a Taylorian universe of magic realism. Bruce cares most of all about his art, which places him far above the petty and mundane concerns of other purveyors of the written word. He’s not plastic or phoney. He’s real.
Trained as a psychiatric counselor, he is a stream-of-consciousness writer, a person who lets it flow in high-energy bursts. This is especially remarkable when you realize that he has, for many years, suffered from diabetes, a strength-sapping illness that has required much of his attention. Through sheer willpower he has controlled this debility and has created a remarkable life for himself, and a remarkable life’s work. He is a prolific writer of short stories, and has garnered considerable acclaim for them. I am one of his admirers, and I am not alone. More and more, this man’s talent is being recognized.
One day critics will say that so-and-so writes like Bruce Taylor, because by that time Bruce will be so incredibly well known and (horror of horrors!) commercially successful that people will begin to copy him. At least they will be trying, but I don’t know to what extent such an effort can be successful. Bruce isn’t a formula-type person who is easily subject to analysis, and is undoubtedly resistant to any sort of replication effort, whether computer aided or otherwise. He writes what is on his mind, in whatever manner suits his fancy.
He’s also my backpacking buddy, on many a trip into the untrammeled wilderness of the Pacific Northwest. On a regular basis—whenever he feels overwhelmed by the burdens and B.S. of civilization—Bruce needs to go out and commune with nature, where he recharges his batteries. I remember one evening in particular when we watched the incredible gathering of dusk over the Enchantment Lakes. The sky changed as the purple swept over us, and moments later—far to the west beyond trees and mountains—we noticed an eerie, sickly yellow glow, reminding us that we had not escaped after all. It was the lights of Seattle against the sky, from seventy-five miles away.
Bruce and I are in an eclectic writing group that comprises quite a range of personalities and talents, including: Linda Shepherd (a feminist writer who is also a Ph.D. biochemist); Cal Clawson (a writer of math books and western novels); Marie Landis1 (a science fiction/fantasy writer who is an accomplished painter); and Phyllis Lambert (a scientist who writes about human aging and about monkeys in car washes). Somewhere in all of this Bruce and I seem to fit in, or at least we haven’t been asked to leave yet. At our Friday evening sessions the conversations are catholic (with a small “c”), ranging from Plato, Einstein and vampires to debates over whether the fisherman in one of our stories should haul up a human toe or an eyeball. To categorize the members of our group (and Bruce to a large extent), it might be said that we’re interested in everything, and we’re a support group for the fragile creative psyches of writers. Bruce is an integral part of this, and for years I have appreciated his intellectual input and emotional support.
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1 Since this introduction was written, Cal Clawson, Marie Landis and her husband, Si, sadly have passed away.
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In his writing and in his life, Bruce is on a journey of the soul and of the imagination, stretching the limits of consciousness and perception. To a large degree this has to do with his attempt to understand his parents and in particular his father, and in this regard I am a kindred spirit with him.
Joseph Campbell once said that the quest for one’s father is a hero’s journey, and I know from personal experience that it can be an arduous, painful pursuit, but one that can lead to incredible enlightenment. Much of Bruce Taylor’s prose is written from the perspective of a bright child, one who is in some pain but overcomes it by seeing the world of adults as truly bizarre, whimsical and weird. It’s important to realize that Bruce’s stories are not strange; the world is, and he’s separated himself from it in order to show us new realities, with remarkable clarity and insight.
—Brian Herbert
Bainbridge Island, Washington