We Were Words First

Episode 1: Harry Thomas

This week began in the company of writers at a Dark Angels writing retreat in Kent. Sunlight and wonderfully baggy spacious days of languid writing consumed me. Laughter and birdsong became the ambient soundtrack to our days. Time softened there. Conversations wandered without urgency, notebooks filled at their own pace, and every hour seemed to stretch just a little further than the last. It was, in short, bliss.

It was at this very retreat, a year ago, that I first heard about Substack. The idea of writing for writers and artists immediately appealed to me — an audience of like-minded people who cared about language, stories and the strange compulsion to keep creating long after common sense suggested we should probably have chosen easier hobbies. Still, despite my enthusiasm, it took me until early 2026 to actually begin posting.

When I finally did, I found a community surprisingly quickly. Not an audience, exactly, but a small constellation of writers and artists whose work I admired and whose voices I found myself looking forward to. They became familiar in the peculiar way people do online. I learned the rhythm of their thinking before I knew anything about the rhythm of their lives. Among them was Harry Thomas.

I found Harry not long after joining Substack. There was something about his bleak, stripped-back horror that immediately drew me in. There was nothing performative about his writing, no sense that he was reaching for darkness simply because horror demanded it. It felt honest. Precise. He was the Hemingway of horror: economical, unsentimental and quietly devastating.

We subscribed to one another, and before long I reached out to tell him that I thought he possessed a genuine talent. Perhaps that was presumptuous — after all, who am I to make pronouncements on another writer’s work? But I have always believed that admiration loses its value if it remains unspoken. Writers hear criticism often enough. We should probably tell each other when we get something right.

I had a good feeling about Harry. He seemed grounded and genuinely funny. So, when I realised I’d be stopping in London after the retreat, I suggested we meet.

I’ve never been particularly good at social media. As someone on the spectrum, the absence of physical cues, facial expressions and tone can make typed conversations surprisingly difficult to navigate. Entire friendships are built on subtleties I can’t always see. Equally, I am prone to making choices that other people consider impulsive, but that has rarely stopped me.

When Harry agreed to meet for a drink, I found myself wondering whether there might be an essay hidden somewhere inside the experience — a kind of literary pilgrimage, or perhaps parasocial tourism. But I dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it arrived. I consider writing about most things. Not everything deserves to become an essay.

Still, I wondered whether, over time, I might meet other writers I’d come to know through Substack. The idea felt charming but faintly ridiculous. The internet isn’t supposed to work like that. People are meant to remain avatars and profile pictures. We consume each other’s words without ever expecting them to become three-dimensional.

That was until last month, when I put my money where my mouth is and booked flights to America to continue this rather ridiculous adventure. Even then, writing about it felt self-indulgent. I was travelling for the people, not the content. The essays, if they ever existed, would simply be a by-product of something much more important. So I quietly shelved the idea.

Then Thursday arrived. I found myself sitting alone in a London bar, waiting for Harry to appear. It was, I admit, the long way to hello. Yet, when he arrived I knew it was the right way. He ordered a beer, I ordered a dram of whisky, and we slipped almost immediately into the sort of conversation usually reserved for two people putting the world to rights over a bottle at three o’clock in the morning. Only there was no bottle, and it was barely six on a Thursday evening.

When I told Harry about my plans to cross the pond it was he who first suggested that I should write about these adventures. We agreed that there was something wonderfully novel about watching another person step out from behind their writing. We were both quietly delighted by the absurdity of it.

Harry was exactly as I’d imagined and yet entirely different. There was a corporate façade carefully disguising the dark creative underneath. He didn’t seem entirely convinced of his own talent, but he believed absolutely in ideas, in stories and in the necessity of making things. That combination always interests me more than confidence.

We talked about writing, horror, publishing, life and all the strange, impossible reasons people continue creating despite every practical argument against it. Time quietly wandered off without us. At some point I realised why I’d suggested we meet in the first place. Because now we were real. Not usernames. Not profile pictures. Friends.

I don’t know whether it was the whisky or the whimsy, but I left a couple of hours later feeling as though the world had become ever so slightly brighter. More expansive. More interesting. The internet has a remarkable talent for convincing us that connection is shallow, temporary or somehow less authentic than the friendships we stumble into by chance. Yet sometimes words are simply introductions waiting patiently for the right place and the right time to become conversations.

So here I find myself on a Substack pilgrimage of sorts, discovering the people between the posts. Harry Thomas is the first of four (currently) planned excursions and you should definitely subscribe to him. We have a couple of incredibly exciting collaborations planned and I genuinely can’t wait for them to be at a point we can announce them.

After meeting Harry, I realised that while I came to Substack for the essays, I’m staying for the people.