Marcus Hawke: “Screw aging gracefully—I aim to age disgracefully.”
I WANT to welcome Marcus Hawke to the Blog. Marcus is a Canadian writer of horror and dark fiction, the kind of author who seems perfectly comfortable wandering into the darkest corners of the imagination and inviting readers along for the ride—or a bloody bite.
Marcus is the founder of Hawke Haus Books, a personal imprint through which he has published his own fiction and edited several horror anthologies, including October Blood: A Book of Halloween Horror (2022) and Dead of Night: A Book of Vampire Horror (2023), featuring a diverse lineup of talented voices from the horror writing community. His collection Acts of Violence: Twelve Tales of Terror (2022) was awarded the bronze medal for Best Collection/Anthology at the 2023 Godless Awards.
Born in Toronto, Marcus later moved to Calgary, where he studied at the Alberta College of Art and Design. His longstanding fascination with the macabre has shaped a growing body of horror fiction, including Bump in the Night: A Short Horror Story (2020), The Miracle Sin (2021), Grey Noise (2023), which is also available in a Deluxe Edition, The Axe Remembers: A Redwood Ripper Story (2024), and You Can’t Take It With You (2024), all published through Hawke Haus Books.
He has also played an active role in Canada’s horror-writing community, including helping establish the Alberta chapter of the Horror Writers Association.
In our conversation, we explore a range of topics, including the role of nature as a literary device in horror fiction, judging a book by its cover, and his thoughts on Queer Horror.
Check out my review of Marcus’ novel You Can’t Take It With You here!
Marcus, when you reflect on the beginnings of your writing, both as a personal outlet 
for creative expression and as a step toward a career, who or what stands out as your most significant source of inspiration? At what moment did you realize it was time to move beyond writing for yourself and enter the daunting world of publishing, and how do you navigate the vulnerability and anxiety that can come with sharing your work with a global audience?
Stephen King, Anne Rice, Ray Bradbury, and JRR Tolkien were probably the most influential on me in a formative sense. But it was Kealan Patrick Burke [Also a favourite of mine!] who first introduced me to the existence of indie horror, which was, as it turned out, the start of my publishing career. Even though publishing can be daunting, I still very much write for myself and don’t see the two things as separate. The only real way to overcome any apprehension that comes with it is to do what the late great Carrie Fisher once said: “Stay afraid, but do it anyway.”
What is it about the Horror Genre, whether it’s the raw, body-horror intensity of a David Cronenberg-style nightmare or the bloody, brutal nature of a good ol’ slasher, that excites and inspires you? How much did growing up drawn to the dark and foreboding shape the way you craft horror and fear in your fiction today? And would you say it’s your adult perspective that has allowed you to better understand humour—dark or otherwise—in horror, and to now strategically weave these elements, alongside hints of hope, into your work, rather than focusing on unrelenting terror?
I think what appeals to me so much about horror is two-fold: the exploration and celebration of the dark aesthetic, and a ripe field in which to sow the right seeds. I have many things that I need to express, and I find horror is, most of the time, the right genre for them. In many ways, writing is both therapeutic and cathartic for me, and it’s funny how often I look back on things and only later connect them with points from my past. I think adulthood is the perfect vantage from which to view and record such things because being an adult is in itself horrifying.
When a story sparks in your mind, how do you know whether it wants to be a short tale, a novella, or a full-length novel? You’ve written them all, and I’d love to hear how you decide.
Starting out, I may not necessarily know at all. I’ve had things that start out being short stories take on a more full life of their own and become novellas or longer, and vice versa. So I guess I’d have to say that it’s not so much a matter of decision as much as discovery.
As both a fan of your work and someone very much interested in “Queer Horror,” I see your fiction as primarily focused on horror settings, supernatural elements, violence, and moral ambiguity, with less emphasis on relationships or scenarios tied to sexual orientation or gender identity.
That said, you’ve openly expressed your allyship with the LGBTQ+ community, and, as a gay man and writer myself, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the role of queerness in horror. How do you think your work engages with ideas of diversity, particularly in terms of character creation, even when these aspects aren’t overtly foregrounded. As Queer Horror continues to grow as a vibrant and influential genre, is it something you’d be interested in exploring more deeply in future projects?
I have stories with a mix of characters, some of whom are queer (and there are more to come), so I’m open to it, but I’ve always felt that the people best suited to cover this topic are, of course, queer authors. I’m all for its existence as a visible and important part of the horror genre, and I like reading work which offers a unique point of view. Not just important but crucial, because I know for myself, creative expression is my saving grace because I need that outlet, and there are countless people in the queer community who have no shortage of things to say and stories to tell. One of whom, Clive Barker, is one of my absolute favourites; though I’m still terribly behind in the bulk of his work, I’m getting there.
With your novella, The Axe Remembers: A Redwood Ripper Story, what was your process for finding the right balance between traditional slasher elements and the use of folklore and the atmospheric, psychological horror that permeates this work?
Additionally, how did the remote wilderness of Vancouver Island and the timber mill setting contribute to heightening the story’s tension and sense of dread? Were you looking to write an “Eco-Horror story,” as I’ve heard many describe The Axe Remembers as?
I don’t know that I did find the right balance, though I hope that I did. I really did want to kind of channel that feeling of hearing old tales and urban legends that we’re all sure can’t be true, but can’t help but wonder where they came from. And what if one of them turned out to be? I just did my best to incorporate the various elements to make for a compelling story. The “Eco” aspect of it was definitely present throughout the writing of it, with the Redwood Ripper meant to represent the force of nature itself in his drive and actions, being the effect to the cause, so to speak. So if there’s a message behind that story, it’s that we can’t expect to push things to the brink and expect no consequences; specifically those that will certainly affect us all.
Your novel, You Can’t Take It With You, my favourite of your books, employs vampirism as a lens through which to explore broader existential questions. Themes of death and the fear of mortality, addiction, and the complexities of the human condition, such as dealing with despair, doubt, avarice, and loneliness, run throughout the narrative.
In this context, blood and immortality serve as metaphors for desire, compulsion, and the ongoing, often unfulfilling, search for meaning and satisfaction in one’s life. As the story engages with these heavy, universal themes beneath its supernatural surface, what kinds of emotional or philosophical responses were you hoping to provoke in your readers—or even yourself?
I think you summed it up pretty well right there. That’s a story I wrote during a very transitional period in my life. I had just turned forty years old and had a long-term relationship end all within a short time. Some of the story had been written before that time, some of it after. So there were a lot of those existential questions, as well as grief and soul searching, that I’m sure came through in Monty’s story. As well as just facing your own mortality, whether we like it or not. And on that point, I still maintain that I would rather be a vampire. Screw aging gracefully, I aim to age disgracefully.
Marcus, your novel, The Miracle Sin, seamlessly incorporates horror with 
philosophical and religious ideology, creating a complex, deliciously provocative and deeply engaging story without ever feeling like a heavy-handed morality tale. How did you approach balancing those big questions about fate and faith with the more visceral, intense horror moments? Fanboying a bit here, but I have to say, you absolutely nailed it.
And with Mason Cole’s journey being so personal, how did you guide him from tragedy to confronting such unspeakable evil? Did any real-world beliefs, theology, or even personal experiences influence how you shaped the story’s cosmic stakes?
I greatly appreciate that, thank you! I’m massively proud of The Miracle Sin for a number of reasons, mainly how it, to me, represents the achieving of a goal I had set for myself and saw through many trials and tribulations over the better part of ten years. It was also very much an exploration of many things I’ve experienced and struggled with, the destabilization that comes from constant moving throughout childhood and adolescence, to overcoming addiction, loss of family and friends, surviving a potentially fatal accident and not knowing quite what to do with that, and lots more. Where matters of faith are concerned, I really did want to portray things as multi-faceted as I could, both good and bad. It’s possible to look at and regard such things favourably and as positive things as much as it is to see the dark, ugly underbelly of them.
I myself am an atheist, but I like to play with these elements because I think they’re useful for exploring philosophical questions we all find ourselves facing at some point. It’s also, in a sense, grappling with the two opposing forces I think we all have within ourselves. Where one often tries to do the right thing, difficult as that may be, and so often grapples with the how and why of it all, there’s the other side that gives in to mercurial whims, questions nothing, and probably has a better time. I think it’s why we so often gravitate toward villains. They speak truths that the hero may or may not know but be afraid to utter. In essence, they represent freedom. And the second book in the series, The Trouble With Faith and Other Stories, explores this as well, though it twists that notion a bit further in similarly twisted ways.
They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. But maybe you should. I unapologetically admit I have, and I likely will continue to. I love a dynamic cover as much as a subtle one, especially when the simplicity is executed exquisitely. Your covers are no exception. Standouts for me are You Can’t Take It With You, The Axe Remembers: A Redwood Ripper Story, and Grey Noise: Deluxe Edition. Each one pulled me in from that first visual; I had to read your work. They are fantastic—especially You Can’t Take It With You, which I’d describe as “A Christmas Carol meets 30 Days of Night.” Brilliant! What’s your process for creating or selecting covers? And what is your personal philosophy about book covers and reader engagement?
They do say that…but I don’t. A book’s cover is its first impression, and whether we admit it or not, I think we all do judge them this way. That doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t read books you’re interested in if the cover is lacking, or conversely, that you should read something you’re not interested in simply because it has a nice cover. It’s just what we do as creatures with such faculties and sensibilities, for better or worse. The process for picking a cover varies from one book to the next, but one consideration above all is something I learned while studying graphic design: make it something you want to continue to look at.
I’m one of those authors who dares to read all the comments and reviews about my own work, so I have to ask: what’s the most surprising feedback you’ve received from readers about yours? Have you ever found yourself letting comments—positive or negative—affect your writing process, whether consciously or subconsciously, in ways you notice later?
Honestly, I tend not to look at a lot of that for my own sake. Not to be willfully blind but mainly because it can be something hard to get out of your head once it’s in. Criticism is fine, of course, but I don’t want it to affect my ability to create or make me self-conscious enough that I’m afraid to take chances with things. I find that whenever comments or reviews are negative, they very often tend to be personal choices or opinions, and that’s fair enough where the reader themselves are concerned. I know that there are people who like what I do—and I thank every last one of them every chance I get—so I must be doing something right. I aim to continue doing so. If there’s ever anywhere to improve or adjust, and there has been, I’m open to opportunities to do so.
What is the best—and the worst—advice you’ve ever received about writing or publishing? And drawing on your own experiences and hard-earned lessons as a Canadian author, what guidance would you offer other horror writers, especially those like me writing from a Canadian perspective and wanting to use Canada as the backdrop for our fiction?
Funnily enough, I’ve received one of each from my two biggest influences, I’d say—Anne Rice and Stephen King. Anne Rice, who is my favourite author, once told me personally, albeit remotely through the omnipresence of the internet, to “keep the faith.” This was single-handedly responsible for so much of the perseverance and tenacity I held myself to in continuing to keep going, keep submitting, keep trying, and basically not giving up on my journey as an author. [Anne Rice is also my favourite author, and I was lucky enough to get to meet her.]
And Stephen King, much as I love him, provided one of the worst, which was that if something is a good idea, you’ll remember it. That’s baloney. Write it down. Always write it down. Keep track of these things. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that, not knowing what to do with an idea at first, only to, later on, pick it up when it’s the right time.
Boy, do I hear this! I know I’ve convinced myself too many times that I’ll remember something I come up with on the fly—an idea for a scene or a character—only to completely forget it ten minutes later. Now I keep a notebook and pen next to me at home. If I’m out, I use the Notes app on my phone.
Marcus, I have to know: what book(s) are you currently devouring? Do you have a preferred genre, or are your reading preferences quite diverse?
I tend to read largely in horror, but that’s by no means the only one. I love fantasy, as well as certain ones that are hard to label, like Life of Pi, The Amnesiac by Sam Taylor, and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. Right now, one I’m loving is Mexican’s on the Moon by Pedro Iniguez, and I’ve started Clive Barker’s The Scarlet Gospels.
So, what does the future hold for author Marcus Hawke? Could we see you explore something unexpected, like a body-horror romance or a horror story with a procedural, detective twist? Give your fans a glimpse into your future!
What indeed? Well, I know the next book I’ll have out will be through Eerie River, called Fuck This Place, a co-authored dystopian-post-apocalyptic double feature with C.M. Forest, sometime in the fall of 2026. Beyond that, who knows? I’ve always got many irons in the fire. Right now I’m working on a black metal-themed book, an extreme surgical horror story that will probably be a novella, and a Gothic story I’ve been working on for ages. So it really just depends on which of those gets finished first. Time will tell.
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