The author of The Need researches genetics to craft a compulsive cannibal character
Genetics have fascinated me since I was a teenager. My interest didn’t spawn from a well-meaning science teacher or an Oscar-winning documentary. It came from one man—Dean Koontz. I devoured his novels at the public library—tales of lab-grown monsters, genetically altered dogs, rare diseases, and secret government scientists. I didn’t care if the science was real or fake—I was in.
There’s something about grounding horror in science that makes it more terrifying. Bodies are weird. We live in them every day, yet many things about them can seem mysterious—scary even.
Sometimes, living in a body feels like driving a very expensive car without a manual. The weird mole on your arm, the cough that won’t go away, the rash you can’t identify—could be nothing, or a sign you’re dying. Only a doctor can diagnose you, and not all of us have easy access to one.
I’ve always found genetics particularly scary. Genes can lurk in your DNA for years before they show up as a disease or disorder. They sneak up like a home invasion—something you couldn’t prevent. You’re an innocent bystander, saddled with a future you had no hand in. It’s written in your DNA.
When I started writing my book, The Need, I knew I had to root it in real science. The book is about cannibals—a pretty divisive subject. Werewolves are strong, vampires sexy, witches cool. But cannibals? They eat people. It’s hard to empathize with a serial killer who dines on his victims—literally.
Unless they can’t help it.
Cannibalism as a genetic disorder is scarier and forces audiences to grapple with morality in a different way. Someone who eats people because they want to is an immediate villain. But someone who needs to eat people for health reasons? That’s a different story. It’s not a moral failing; it’s a way to survive. It’s hard to villainize someone who is sick, struggling with something they didn’t ask for, with no hope of a cure.
It’s also relatable. The audience must consider what they would do while struggling with such a disorder. Would they let themselves perish? Figure out how to satiate themselves ethically? Or go on a murderous rampage in the name of survival? The answers aren’t simple; good and bad become very blurry.
Writing about a genetic cannibal required research. While I’ve taken online genetics courses, I don’t retain the nitty-gritty details. I didn’t want to get bogged down in specifics. There is no genetic cannibal, and I lack the science background to render one in medical detail. Early on, I freed myself from that pressure, making the journey to create this disorder more enjoyable.
I researched sickle-cell anemia, hemochromatosis, and prion diseases like kuru—something people get from eating human meat. I looked into gene therapy and the unique proteins in human meat. I focused on easily digestible articles, not scientific abstracts.
Despite creating fictional science, I knew diving too deep would confuse me. I’m no Dean Koontz.
I also reached out to a geneticist through Hollywood, Health & Society at the USC Annenberg Norman Lear Center. They connect writers with experts to aid research. The geneticist reviewed my science-related passages, ensuring they felt realistic. I was relieved to have someone check my work, even without complex terminology.
I hope I crafted a narrative that makes readers feel genetic cannibalism could exist in the real world. I want to creep them out and make them question what they’d do in my character’s shoes. Because horror rooted in reality is always more terrifying.
