horrific thing and has absolutely no remorse. And the whole thing lends itself well to his minimalist style. He has this great ability to give you just the right about of information, letting the imagination kick in and fill in the rest of the details. It’s almost like the more twisted your imagination the more twisted the stories become. HI. Absolutely. And if the story doesn’t require a twist. . . I mean, “Holiday” is about an alcoholic skeptic meeting Santa Claus. No twist needed there. It’s almost like there are no real endings, either—just shifts in perspective. Every time you expect something to happen that seals somebody’s fate, you get a ‘to be continued…’ instead. EB. I’m not sure I’d want endings on all the stories. Some of these people’s dispositions are so deliciously disturbing that I needed to get off that ride before it made me lose my mind. Look at “Shutterbug”: you know you’ve been that guy sitting next to people in a public place having a conversation so obnoxious you just want to reach out and throttle them. We all have. But the way it ends will make me think twice about that attitude. HI. Which is part of what makes that story stand out, actually—it takes a somewhat normal situation and creates something unexpectedly morbid with it. Makes you wonder what that old lady at the grocery store is REALLY muttering about. I’m not sure I want to know, now. [Laughs] EB. So I think it’s fair to say that Richard Christian Matheson is certainly a writer who can stand on his own accomplishments. When I spoke to his father, he had told me he was jealous of his son’s ability to craft words. That’s a pretty high compliment. HI. Yeah, I’m a bit bitter, myself. [Laughs] He’s so good I envy him. The writing genes running in that family are ridiculous. Leave some for the rest of us! EB. So I’m guessing you’d recommend DYSTOPIA as a must-read? HI. It’s a “buy this or be arrested” read. I’ve worked at bookstores before. I have ways. EB. I couldn’t agree more; this is certainly a book that any fan of horror, psychological dramas, and anything just plain weird would enjoy.
We also had the chance to correspond with Richard Christian Matheson and find out what makes this modern- day Renaissance man tick.
you depart the structured count, you must always know where “one” is; a kind of metaphor for life. What do they all share? Listening to what surrounds the moment; outwardly and in subtext.
FM. The beginning of your screenwriting career was spent working in the muscular storytelling, alpha-male world of Glen Larson (BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, KNIGHT RIDER, MAGNUM P.I.) and Stephen Cannell (THE A-TEAM, HUNTER), producers of some of the best action storytelling every put on TV. How did the experiences working with them and on their shows help in the development of your skillset? RCM. I learned to loathe cliché, do the next most interesting thing and coin odd dialogue. I also learned how to commit odd crimes, enjoy amoral twists and work incredibly long hours.
FM. One thing people often wonder about episodic television is just how much freedom a writer gets to tell the story. What were your experiences? Were you given very specific requirements or were there times you got the freedom to tell some stories you otherwise might have thought not possible in serial TV? RCM. Episodic rarely abandons the DNA of the series; the audience expects characters, arcs and tone to remain consistent. But working on staff as head writer or producer we were always looking for a different story, a new approach, something that would startle but not entirely depart the template.
FM. I remember that when I really started getting into horror literature I was in film school. I’m taking these writing classes where I’m being beaten over the head with character development and setting and all the de rigueur of storytelling-so much so that it became almost impossible for me to conceive of a story that wasn’t epic in scope. It was about that time I was given a collection of stories, of which your “Red” was included. It blew my entire world out of the water because here was this piece that was just a few pages in length, but had all the power of a story 50 times longer. In fact, many of your stories are a mere few pages, but have depth and power as if much longer. What is the key to your being able to put so much story into so few pages? RCM. The reader. The trick is to trigger their thoughts, not explain mine.
FM. In the book “Godel, Escher, Bach”, Douglas Hofstadter discusses the “golden braid” that exists between music, math, and art. Having had success as an author, screenwriter, producer, and musician, is there a commonality between then that plays to a particular strength of yours-or is there something in each one that plays to a different part of your personality or various passion?
RCM. For me, writing, producing and playing music thrivewith spontaneity and restraint. With drumming, no matter how far
FM. What is it that drew you to the short format story or, more to the point, has kept you coming back to the short format story? Do you ever feel limited by it? RCM. I’m a minimalist. I find short story writing to be a lapidary discipline and always involving. I love getting paragraphs of value out of two or three words correctly arranged. Like traveling through Europe on a couple bucks a day.
FM. Learning music from Ginger Baker, one of the greatest drummers of his generation, has no choice but to leave a large impression on you. What stylistic and philosophical lessons did you take away from your learning with him? RCM. Discipline and emotion. Ginger was very polite and
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