When Life Gets Scarier than Fiction

While waiting for Beta feedback and editing to complete on The Nightmare Maker, I wrote 100 pages of my third novel (currently titled Dreamonologist). In that draft (which won't be published out of a sense of decency and respect), I described an attack on Borough Market and London Bridge by an red, four-armed monster. Just a few days later, real monsters carried out a deplorable attack in the same area, driving a van into pedestrians and then stabbing many of them.

I like to write about places that I know, so I work only a ten minute walk from where that all happened. I have a young family, and I was initially nervous to head back down there for work. In the end, there really wasn't any choice to make. Not because I was desperate to keep my job, but because terror can best be defeated not through bravado, nor authoritarian measures, but through determined indifference.

Terrorists are like screaming two-year-olds: If they can see that they are affecting you, they're never going to stop throwing their pathetic tantrums. This is the third major terrorist attack that has happened in reasonable proximity to me in London, and it probably won't be the last. But I'll never change what I do, what I think, or what I feel for because of them.