Michael Bailey Explores the Power of Storytelling, Horror, and Creative Collaboration

PHOTO: Michael Bailey, award-winning author, editor, and creative force behind works like Silent Nightmares and Madness and Writers, photographed in his creative space. Credit: Julie Stipes

Writing Across Mediums With Depth and Purpose

Michael Bailey reflects on his evolution as a writer, editor, and filmmaker, sharing insights into storytelling, genre fluidity, co-editing with Chuck Palahniuk, and curating transformative anthologies with emotional depth.

Michael Bailey never sets out to simply tell a story—he constructs a world and then patiently, insistently, dares us to enter it. Whether through fiction, essays, or the intricacies of editorial vision, his work is a quiet revolution: one that prizes emotional truth, aesthetic risk, and a deep, unwavering respect for the reader. His voice on the page is both unflinching and generous, shaped by decades of observing how stories fail, and more importantly, how they survive.

Bailey‘s literary reach is expansive, but his intention is always intimate. In Righting Writing, he offers a meditation on the craft itself—delivered not as a lecture, but a lived experience. In projects like Long Division, his editorial hand doesn’t just gather stories; it composes symphonies of social critique and human vulnerability. His latest anthology, Silent Nightmares, co-edited with Chuck Palahniuk, promises to further expand that vision—deliberately unearthing not just the dark corners of fiction, but the luminous possibility within new voices.

Beyond the written word, Bailey’s work in film—particularly the poignant Madness and Writers series—blurs the boundaries between mediums, revealing a creator who listens as intently as he speaks. His curations are conversations, his edits acts of quiet advocacy, and his own writing a study in fearlessness.

In a world eager for noise and speed, Michael Bailey urges us toward resonance and reflection. His stories linger. His questions echo. And through it all, he reminds us why we turned to words in the first place.

Bailey writes with intention and edits with care, balancing fierce creativity with a deep understanding of narrative impact and artistic collaboration.

What inspired you to write Righting Writing, and how did you decide on its narrative format?

Inspiration came from years of watching the same mistakes cycle through submission piles—mistakes with soul, no doubt, but repeated. Righting Writing wasn’t born from a place of criticism, but care. I wanted to craft something that didn’t just instruct but engaged, something more conversational than a lecture. So I leaned into narrative. I thought: Why not approach writing advice the same way we approach fiction? The format mirrors the experience of learning to write and self-edit well: nonlinear, a little chaotic, but ultimately constructive.

How do your experiences as an editor influence your own writing?

Editing is a constant exercise in humility. It reminds you that brilliance and failure can share the same paragraph, the same sentence. I have learned to become a better listener—to hear what a story wants to be rather than forcing it to conform, but it’s a slower process now. Editing thousands of voices has taught me restraint in my own work: to let characters breathe, to allow space in the prose. I’m also less precious with my drafts now. I cut more, trust my writing more, and fear less. The editor in me has made the writer in me sharper and more forgiving in equal measure.

“Righting Writing wasn’t born from a place of criticism, but care.” – Michael Bailey

Silent Nightmares features collaboration with Chuck Palahniuk—what was the co-editing process like?

Chuck brings a minimalistic eye to prose and a contagious energy to everything he touches, and we both have an eclectic taste. We approached the curation of Silent Nightmares as an open dialogue, and our goal was to not only include writing legends in our line-up, but to purposefully leave room for future legends. With our open call for submissions, we filtered through 2,138 stories to end up with six; otherwise, the rest of the book was invite-only. We both have a passion to advocate for new voices, to mentor, to expose and elevate exceptional writing talent. After all, neither of us would be where we are today without the help from those before us.

How do you approach curating stories for anthologies with such diverse voices?

Curating is less about collecting and more about composing. I treat each anthology like a score—there should be rhythm, contrast, crescendo. I seek stories that speak to each other across genre, culture, tone, and that means paying attention to what’s not there yet but also seeking out what should be. Diversity is not just about representation—it’s about range, surprise, and emotional resonance. Readers should leave an anthology changed, not just entertained. That requires careful care during selection, and ruthless love during editing. An anthology should feel like stepping into a world with many windows.

What drew you to explore the intersection of horror and societal issues in works like Long Division?

Horror is a mirror genre. It reflects what we fear, but also what we’re unwilling to name. Long Division emerged from a desire to hold that mirror a little closer to our collective face than comfortable, and my coeditor Doug Murano and I understood what needed reflecting. The societal fractures we live with—color, class, politics, our dark history—they’re not separate from our nightmares; they are the nightmares. Horror becomes a lens through which we can explore injustice without moralizing, human suffering without dilution. And when done right, it doesn’t offer easy answers. It disturbs with purpose.

How does your work in film, such as Madness and Writers, complement or differ from your writing?

Film demands immediacy. Every second, every frame, must earn its place. Writing prose allows for introspection, texture, and interiority. Film strips that down to image and motion. That contrast has taught me economy in storytelling. In Madness, for example, we lean heavily on atmosphere and emotion to provide what entire pages might in a book. Ten pages of prose could be captured in a single frame. Film sharpens the bones of a story. It teaches you to trust silence, to listen to direction, and to understand the difficult lesson that sometimes what you don’t say is more powerful than what you do. If a picture is worth a thousand words, what does that say about film, about pictures that move?

“Editing is a constant exercise in humility.” – Michael Bailey

Do you have a preferred genre to write in, or do you enjoy moving across genres?

I love friction between genres. My roots are in speculative fiction and horror, but I often drift into literary, sci-fi, absurdism, poetry, even creative nonfiction and memoir. Genre is a label, not a box, and one can easily peel off a label and create comfortably without one. I’m drawn more to questions than categories, and to character more so than plot. What does it mean to be human? How do we carry pain? What does survival look like when the rules collapse? Sometimes those questions wear the mask of horror; other times, they emerge through surrealism or satire or whatever the story requires. Shifting is part of the exploration. The unknown lives in the margins between genres.

What role does visual art play in the creation of your anthologies, like in You, Human?

Visual art is often the spark that ignites theme. In You, Human, the artwork wasn’t decorative—it was narrative. The images informed the stories, and the stories reflected the images. There’s a kind of resonance that happens when you let mediums overlap. Art can frame a reader’s emotional entry point before a single word is ever read. It’s a form of storytelling that bypasses yet stimulates the rational mind. Collaborating with visual artists reminds us that language is not made from words alone.

Which of your awards or nominations has meant the most to you, and why?

Being nominated numerous times for the Shirley Jackson Award is meaningful—an award that values ambition and risk. I call those I have collected so far my rock garden, and think of Charlie Brown mumbling, “I got a rock” whenever they send me one. The Benjamin Franklin Award and other independent accolades also stand out because they are jury-based, focused on merit rather than popularity. The Bram Stoker Award is nice, but the organization that hands out those haunted house statues can be cliquey, which is only ever fun for the clique. But awards are physical. What matters more is when a writer or reader simply tells you they feel seen, or moved, or unsettled in a way that lingers.

What advice would you offer to authors seeking to balance creativity with the demands of publishing?

Protect your creative space like it’s sacred. Publishing will tug at you to conform, to hurry, to produce for trends. Resist that at all costs. Write the story that scares you or confuses you or makes you feel alive. That’s your compass: you. But also treat writing as a calling, not just a craft. And don’t write because you want to; write because you need to. Learn the business, but don’t let it steal your voice. Balance means understanding when to compromise and when to dig in. Lastly, be a writer, not an author. “Author” is just a temporary label you wear after writing something, which peels. A writer continues writing.