It could be—and has been—argued that television is a kind of unwitting enemy of reading. And surely anything that gets in the way of reading hurts writers, too. But the current renaissance in long-form television, in which writers, directors, and actors have weeks and even years in which to develop and deepen the characters they have created serves as a kind of inspiration to writers who have created stories (and characters, and worlds) that take more than one book to fully explore.
I was not more than half way through Breed before realizing that whatever happened to Adam and Alice in that novel would not be the end of their story. Breed begins with the (extremely privileged) journey of Alex Twisden and Leslie Kramer as they struggle with their infertility, and spare no trouble or expense to have a child—a desire that begins with longing and soon becomes an obsession. Once pregnancy and birth are achieved, the novel turns its attention to the business of actual parenting—something, of course, hundreds and millions of people experience, though most of them without the added challenge of having been genetically altered and driven quite mad by uncontrollable cannibalistic urges.
The primary (and primal) terror of Breed is a child’s fear of her or his own parents. But once that story came to its climax, the further story of what would become of Alex and Leslie’s twins began to occupy my mind, and Brood was born. Brood asks: what can we do to keep the beast within in check? Brood explores how nurture will fare in a struggle with nature. And what do you do when your wishes are fulfilled and you realize you have wished for the wrong thing? In Brood, as is generally the case in life, terror begins at home.
—Chase Novak, September, 2013