The Groovy, Grim Reality of 1970

We think we know 1970. Bell-bottoms, big hair, rock ‘n’ roll. Grady Hendrix found the other version. The one where, as he puts it, the country felt like it was “breaking apart” in a “generational war.” His new novel, Witchcraft for Wayward Girls, is set on a quiet front of that war: a maternity home for so-called “wayward” teens.

Hendrix “cannibalises” his life for his books, and this one hits close to home. It was inspired by two relatives sent to similar homes. He knew their names, their laughs. That connection, he admits, made him “almost overly-empathetic.” It also makes the horror sting.

And the witchcraft? It’s not glamorous. It’s gritty Appalachian folk magic, a DIY rebellion for girls with no other tools. Hendrix admits the bigger themes only emerged once he started writing, quipping, “Because I’m incredibly dense.”

This is his signature: finding terror in the systemic and mundane. The real horror here isn’t the spells; it’s the cavalier cruelty of 1970s obstetrics, which he notes makes “the supernatural horror look quaint.” He writes with the heart of a punk and the soul of a librarian, crafting stories that are less about escape and more about building a weapon from whatever’s at hand.

Consider this interview your primer.

Grady Hendrix on Witchcraft, Wayward Girls, and the Real Horror of 1970

Witchcraft for Wayward Girls is set in a maternity home for unwed teens in the 1970s. What was it about that specific, pre-Roe v. Wade moment in history that felt like the right container for this story of power and powerlessness?

I had wanted to write a story set in the maternity homes for a long time and I finally felt ready to tackle it. So I picked 1970 because it needed to take place before these girls had even heard of Roe v. Wade, but I didn’t want it so far in the past that readers could comfortably dismiss it as some relic of 1950s puritanism. Because I’m incredibly dense, any larger themes only emerged once I started writing.

The girls in the home use a book of Appalachian folk magic to gain some control. Why was it important for you that the witchcraft they discover be rooted in folk magic, rather than something more ceremonial or, you know, glamorous?

I used folk magic for their early spells, but began dropping in ritual magic, especially from the classical Greek and Roman traditions later, because I wanted to mix and match practices as much as possible rather than risk offending someone by appropriating one particular tradition. But I love Appalachian folk magic and hoodoo because they’re so uniquely American and so much a part of the South, which is my part of the world.

You’ve mentioned that the novel was inspired by the real-life experiences of two of your relatives who were sent to similar homes. How did that personal connection shape your approach to writing with respect for these teenagers and their stories?

Right from the beginning, I was looking at the homes from the point of view of specific women I knew who’d been sent to them. I wasn’t generalizing about “those kind of girls” who might be sent there, or “troubled teens”. I knew exactly who’d been sent there, I knew their names, I knew how they sounded when they laughed and when they cried, I knew these women which made me almost overly-empathetic to them. 

I’m curious about the librarian, Miss Parcae, who introduces the girls to witchcraft. She seems to offer both knowledge and danger. How did you approach crafting a character who embodies that complex, maybe even ambiguous, role of a mentor?

I could not figure out these witches. What did they want? Why were they there? Then I remembered notes I’d taken at the St. Augustine Florida Historical Society where I’d read every issue of the St. Augustine Daily Record from April to September, 1970, when my book took place.

Reading those headlines, you got the feeling that a war had broken out between old people and young people in this country in 1970 as old people applauded cops beating peaceful protestors and shipped their children off to die in Vietnam, while young people took to the streets, armed themselves, and bombed ROTC offices. I realized the voices of my witches were the voices of radical political action groups like the Black Panthers, the Weather Underground, and Students Against the War. This was what my witches would sound like: underground revolutionaries in a war against society, fighting for their lives.

A critic at the New York Times Book Review wrote that the novel highlights society’s “wild abhorrence of wayward young women”. So, beyond the supernatural horror, what feels like the most horrifyingly real aspect of this story to you?

The specifics of how we had babies in the ‘70s and ‘80s were uniquely horrifying: doctors inducing labor because they don’t want to have to stay late on a Friday afternoon, doctors telling women their morning sickness was due to being subconsciously terrified of childbirth, doctors strapping women’s wrists and ankles down during labor, the overuse of forceps, cavalier episiotomies. It made the supernatural horror look quaint. 

The girls in the home are creating their own grimoire, their own book of shadows, piece by piece. There’s this powerful theme of reclaiming the narrative, literally writing their own magic. What was it like to write that collaborative, almost patchwork creation of knowledge, especially as it stands against the more rigid, established systems that have failed them?

One of the things that the ‘60s and ‘70s emphasized was a very American DIY philosophy. You want to learn about feminism? Start a consciousness-raising group. You want to change the system? Figure out how to run for office. You want to have your babies differently, or churn your own butter, or build your own house? Head to the library, or a commune, or apprentice yourself to someone and learn. So what these girls are doing fit in perfectly with the times.

The title itself, Witchcraft for Wayward Girls, sounds almost like a rebellious self-help manual. If you were to distill the book’s central message into a piece of advice for someone who feels powerless or cast aside, what would it be?

I’m with the Japanese director Kinji Fukasaku when he responded to the controversy over his movie, Battle Royale, by saying, “These are my words to the next generation of young people: run.” 

You’ve now written several books with female protagonists, from the final girls in The Final Girl Support Group to the metalhead in We Sold Our Souls. What is it that continues to draw you to these specific, often underestimated, female perspectives?

In some cases the book requires it. Final girls are far more iconic than final boys, and if you’re writing about a book club or a home for pregnant teenagers you’re going to be writing about women most likely. But for me, I’m not so much interested in “underestimated female perspectives” than “underestimated perspectives” full stop. I’m working on a book now where most of the characters are boys, and it’s been educational to realize how dismissive we are of teenagers, whether they’re male or female.

Witchcraft for Wayward Girls and The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampiresboth, in their own ways, explore the idea that the real monsters are often the mundane, systemic evils rather than the supernatural ones. Do you see these two books as being in conversation with each other on that theme?

Writing one book is hard enough so I try not to think about the others at the same time, but you could say that one is about young mothers and the other is about older mothers. And I think both groups of women — pregnant teenagers and middle-aged housewives — are seen as being irrelevant and not worth listening to by most people.

The Wellwood House is such a potent, liminal space, which made me think of the sentient IKEA in Horrorstör. What is it about these specific, often commercial or institutional, settings that you find so ripe for horror?

I love places that are built for everyone, because ultimately they belong to no one. In the case of the store in Horrorstör, the architecture is designed to evoke a psychological response in people and to manipulate them into behaving a certain way. Over time, Wellwood House has been bent to do the same thing, to enforce a code of behavior on these girls. I love architecture that’s designed to mess with our minds. (editors note: for some reason I ended up with lots of review copies of Horrorstör so I went to my local Ikea and hid them in the pile of catalogues)

In How to Sell a Haunted House, you explored grief and the “ghosts” of what our families leave behind. Witchcraft for Wayward Girls also deals with a kind of forced, found family. Is exploring these fraught, complicated family dynamics something you consciously set out to do?

I grew up as a theater kid, and when you do a lot of shows you’re constantly forming these really intense, tight family units that last for a couple of months and then disappear, never to be seen again, and you do that a few times a year. So it makes sense that it’s something I’ve been drawn to in my books.

You’ve described your writing process in the past as, and I think I’m quoting you here, “mess,” involving tons of research and multiple drafts before you find the heart of the story. So, with Witchcraft, what was the biggest thing you thought the book was about when you started, versus what it became in the final draft?

There weren’t any witches in it! I started this as a folk horror novel because I love folk horror, but about two drafts in I realized that just because you love a genre doesn’t mean you’re capable of writing it, and I was not qualified to write folk horror, especially American folk horror which I think doesn’t even really exist, certainly not in the same way it exists in Great Britain. 

You’ve talked about how making a protagonist female can sometimes help you “crack” a story and see them as a fully rounded person, rather than yourself. Did that happen with Fern, and how do you navigate creating that distance to build such authentic characters?

I find writing main characters difficult because they often wind up very boring and colorless, so for me going deep into their backstory helps: do they like to read? Have they had any significant injuries? Are they performers? Do they enjoy attention? With Fern I was lucky because I stumbled across a picture of a kid in an old high school yearbook from Alabama that immediately struck me and I stuck that up over my desk for the two years it took me to write this book.

Your books are masterful at blending genuine, gut-wrenching horror with these moments of real heart and humor. How do you balance that tone, especially in a story with as much inherent trauma as this one?

I just try to stay honest, letting the characters generate the tone, rather than the genre. Scary things can get ridiculous fast in real life, and ridiculous things can get scary, so I try to make the choice the reader isn’t expecting as much as I can.

I read that you once said you “cannibalize” your own life for your books, from your high school friends in My Best Friend’s Exorcism to your mom’s book club in Southern Book Club. What personal part of your life found its way into the Wellwood House?

This one was more of a stretch for me because I didn’t know St. Augustine very well, so I went down and lived there for a little while. I’ve never been pregnant so I relied on a lot of Moms and OBs and reading and classes to help with that. This was a book I really built from the ground up, and relied on my imagination more than usual. That said, running through the woods at night and going night swimming? I know exactly how that feels.

Your non-fiction work, Paperbacks from Hell, is a love letter to the horror genre. Were there any specific novels or tropes from that era of pulp horror that directly inspired the vibe or the plot of Witchcraft for Wayward Girls?

The late ‘60s saw a boom in books like Everyday Magic, Household Charms, and How To Be a Sensuous Witch that were sold in supermarkets and drugstores everywhere. I read as many of them as I could to capture their tone, which is somewhere between a farmer’s almanac and your best girlfriend giving you advice over a glass of wine.

Finally, you’ve spoken about how independent bookstores have been crucial to your career. As an author who often explores dark and challenging themes, what does it mean to you to have that community of booksellers who hand-sell your work and get it into the right readers’ hands?

Books are still a word-of-mouth business, and so indie bookstores are essential. Sometimes you think there are shortcuts like a big advertising campaign, or Facebook marketing, or social media, and that might work in the short term, but if you’re in this for the long haul then going to bookstores, meeting the people who work there, and working with them as much as possible is the only way to go. It also gives you a ground-up view of bookselling that I think is essential. Read articles and have opinions, but until you’ve talked to twenty or thirty booksellers, your opinion doesn’t mean much. 

Chillingly addictive’ – Cosmopolitan

AN INSTANT SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER

‘I did an evil thing to be put in here, and I’m going to have to do an evil thing to get out.’

In this twisted, unforgettable horror novel, a group of young girls turn to a dark, ancient magic. From Grady Hendrix, New York Times bestselling author of How to Sell a Haunted House and The Final Girl Support Group.

They call them wayward girls. Loose girls. Girls who grew up too fast. And they’re sent to the Wellwood House in St. Augustine, Florida, where unwed mothers are hidden by their families to have their babies in secret, give them up for adoption, and most important of all, to forget any of it ever happened.

And where every moment of their waking day is strictly controlled by adults who claim they know what’s best for them.

Fifteen-year-old Fern arrives at the home in the sweltering summer of 1970, pregnant, terrified and alone. There, she meets a dozen other girls in the same predicament.

There’s Rose, a hippie who insists she’s going to keep her baby and escape to a commune. Zinnia, a budding musician who plans to marry her baby’s father. And Holly, barely fourteen, mute and pregnant by no-one-knows-who.

Then Fern meets a librarian who gives her an occult book about witchcraft, and power is in the hands of the girls for the first time in their lives. But power can destroy as easily as it creates, and it’s never given freely.

There’s always a price to be paid . . . and it’s usually paid in blood.

Grady Hendrix

He writes books. Some are fiction (“lies”) and some are nonfiction, which he is occasionally paid for, probably by accident. He’s the guy behind Horrorstör, that novel about a haunted IKEA. It’s a whole movie now. My Best Friend’s Exorcism is basically Beaches meets The Exorcist. The Wall Street Journal called him a “national treasure.” His mom remains unconvinced.

Seeking validation, he wrote Paperbacks from Hell, a history of horror paperbacks. It won a Stoker Award, which is a big deal and definitely gets him discounts places you’ve never heard of. Then came We Sold Our Souls (a metal Faust tale) and The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, a New York Times bestseller. He’s written so many books set in Charleston he probably owes the city royalties.

His past lives include being a journalist (a famously safe profession) and co-founding the New York Asian Film Festival. He is not Asian, for the record. He’s written for Playboy, Variety, Slate. He has commitment issues.

Other projects include a book on kung fu cinema, a sci-fi novel, and a graphic novel cookbook co-authored with his wife that at least two dozen people own. He is absurdly handsome, but he asks that you not let this intimidate you. He’s been in The New Yorker, so when the space arks launch, he’s getting a seat before you do.

Interviews on Ginger Nuts of Horror

If you’re a fan of horror literature and cinema, then you absolutely need to check out the horror interview section of Ginger Nuts of Horror.

Firstly, the interviews feature a diverse range of authors, filmmakers, and horror enthusiasts, allowing readers to gain a multifaceted understanding of the genre. Each interview is an opportunity to explore the creative processes, inspirations, and personal stories behind the minds that produce some of the most chilling and thought-provoking works in horror today. From seasoned veterans to up-and-coming talents, the variety of voices ensures that readers can find something that resonates with them.

Moreover, these interviews often delve into the nuances of what makes horror such a compelling genre. Contributors share their thoughts on the psychological aspects of fear, the societal influences on horror trends, and the ways in which horror reflects cultural anxieties. This deeper exploration not only enriches one’s appreciation for horror stories but also fosters discussions about broader themes, such as identity, morality, and existential dread.

The interviews frequently touch on practical advice and industry insights. Writers and creators often share the hurdles they faced in their careers, tips for aspiring horror writers, and the realities of getting published or produced. This wealth of knowledge is invaluable for anyone looking to navigate the sometimes challenging waters of the horror genre. Readers interested in breaking into horror writing or filmmaking will find a treasure trove of wisdom that could pave their path toward success.

Lastly, the community aspect of Ginger Nuts of Horror cannot be overlooked. Engaging with these interviews allows readers to feel connected to a larger community of horror enthusiasts. Comment sections and social media interactions often follow, enabling fans to discuss their thoughts and engage with both the interviewees and fellow readers.

In conclusion, the horror interview section of Ginger Nuts of Horror is an essential resource for anyone interested in the genre. It provides rich insights, guidance, and inspiration that can deepen one’s appreciation for horror while fostering a vibrant community among fans and creators alike. Don’t miss out on the chance to delve into the minds of your favorite horror creators!