So after a few weeks of silence where I’m
sure most of you thought I must’ve died in a space shuttle explosion, I’ve
decided on something special for all of you: to regale you with the story of my
experience at this year’s World Horror Convention.
The World Horror Convention (for all non-horror
readers) is the annual gathering of people who work in the horror genre
(authors, editors, artists, etc.) and up-and-comers (me and my ilk) who want to
become better at what we’re endeavoring to do.
It’s not really a fan affair; you wont find
many of the usual staples of the conventions that I’m prone to attending (cosplay,
special Q&A events, etc.). It’s more along of the lines of a training camp
where someone can learn more about their chosen craft.
That was all I was really expecting when I
boarded my plane in the wee hours of the morning, just hoping to learn more
about the horror genre and my place in it.
I really had no idea what was in store for
me.
Apparently, this year the convention was
going to be held in Provo, Utah… I know what you’re thinking because it was the
exact same thing that I was: Where the freaking world is Provo, Utah?
Well it’s about a forty-minute drive south of
Salt Lake City nestled at the base of the Rocky Mountains. This required me to
request a shuttle service to the hotel where I was staying and, conveniently,
where the convention was taking place.
I was picked up by the two quirkiest shuttle
drivers I’d ever met, and to my everlasting regret I can’t remember their names,
but we had the best conversations on the way down. We talked all about what I
was doing there and what I hoped to accomplish. Before I’d left for this
adventure, I had been wondering if I should rent a car, but I was glad that I
didn’t because it was a wonderful conversation that I wouldn’t trade at all.
Long story short, they dropped me off at the
Marriott Hotel and Convention Center, the hub of this year’s WHC and where I
would be living for the next few days.
I said farewell to my shuttle drivers and
walked through the doors, ready to meet others like me. In my then 25 years, I
had never met another horror author before… the doors opened… I walked in with
my bags and the biggest smile plastered across my face… and discovered an
incredibly empty lobby devoid of everyone but the concierge.
I must’ve looked completely lost because the
Concierge gave me one of those are you
lost, little boy? looks as I reluctantly trudged over to the desk.
Concierge: Name?
Me (thinking): Pen name or real name? I don’t remember which one I reserved the
room under.
Concierge (A little more forcefully): Name?
Me:
Connor Rice, here’s my card
Concierge: Ah yes, Mr. Rice, we have a lovely room for you.
I walked myself up to my room, looking around
for any familiar faces, while my thoughts raced. Was I in the right place? They
had my reservation, so I must be… but what if I had the wrong hotel?
After dropping my things off in my room (and deciding that since I was a single traveler, I would be alternating between my two queen sized beds like a crazy person) I went exploring around the Hotel and Convention center.
The conference rooms matched the room names
for the convention, but still there was no one who looked official or who I
recognized (or could reasonably guess was there for the convention).
Defeated but undiscouraged, I decided to
venture out into the world of Provo, Utah. I took a shower, tried to look my
best, and journeyed forth, intent on seeing the sights… the landmarks… maybe
interact with a local or two…
Instead, I found a comic book store a few
blocks away and that sucked up my allotted exploring time. Afterwards, I still
had time to eat, so $100 down, I set out with my new load of comic books to
find something to devour.
One place promised the best authentic TexMex
that Utah could provide, and being that I’m from Texas and this was Utah, I was
rather skeptical, so I chose the Italian place beside it where I managed to eat
quite a bit of a pizza before claiming the rest as leftovers.
At that point I was quite done with exploring
the things that Provo had to offer and decided that my best bet would be to go
back to the hotel and maybe get some writing done. I knew the convention
actually started the next day, but I had been hoping to meet some other writers
like me and talk shop or, at the very least, make some new friends.
These are the thoughts that passed through my
mind as I realized something: I was the only person wearing a different color
other than white on this street. Every man wore a white button-up shirt and
black pants. That was when my mind flashed to that good ole Utah stereotype:
Mormonism.
Now I don’t have anything against Mormonism,
far from it in fact. It was just awkward at the time because I felt like an alien
in a world of normal people. My blue dress shirt and jeans undoubtedly stood
out to the crowd (the pizza box and comic books probably did too but I
digress). Either way, I made my way solemnly back to the hotel, an observer
from a faraway place in a land full of the people who interrupt me at home on
Saturdays.
The lobby was still depressingly empty as I
passed once again through the entrance and made my way up to my Fortress of
Horror to type a little more on Don’t
Reel In for lack of better things to do.
After that was finished, I found myself at a
crossroads: sit in my room and write more (or possibly some Utah-based
television?) or go downstairs and try to mingle with whoever might be down
there. I decided on the latter option, but took Stephen King’s 11/22/63 just in case no one was there;
always be prepared in case you have to sit in a hotel bar by yourself.
Nevertheless, I was happily surprised to see
that the hotel restaurant and bar had filled up with a variety of different
people, so I happily trotted my way in and looked for a place to sit. I noticed
an empty seat at the bar next to two women who were chatting. One of them was a
middle-aged blonde and the other an African American lady whose hair was out of
this world.
I had a second to think, “Ha, that lady kind
of looks like Linda Addison,” as I took my seat and ordered something to drink before
diving into my book, intent on blocking out the outside world.
Now, it is a little known fact that I eavesdrop…
oh man do I drop eaves… studied with eavesdropping masters in the mountains of
the Himalayas. Well here I was reading my book in Provo, Utah and I couldn’t
help but overhear these two women talking about Ridley Scott’s Alien (a fantastic masterpiece of Sci-Fi/horror).
I figured they had to be part of the
convention, but due to the fact that I was obviously listening to their
conversation and the fact that I’m an exceedingly private creature who doesn’t
like butting into people’s business, I went back to my own little world.
That was when one of the women turned to me
and asked, “Are you here for the convention?” I nodded and introduced myself
and got their names: Kelly and Linda Addison.
If I had been sipping my drink at the time I
would’ve most definitely choked on it. Turns out my eye is better than I
thought, but more importantly I was talking to Linda Addison… The Linda Addison; the first African
American woman to win a Bram Stoker award for her writing, a wonderful poet and
storyteller, and someone whose work you should definitely read if you haven’t.
Confident and smooth Coyote went away for a
few moments as I began thinking about what I was supposed to say to that: okay
Connor, you’ve got this… be cool… be cool…
So I began talking to Kelly and Linda and for
some reason they took a shine to me. Maybe it was because of some funny
anecdotes I’d told them or how I listened with enraptured awe as they told about
their own stories and experiences. Fast friendships are made in the strangest
of places.
Kelly was not a horror author, but rather an
editor who had quite the list of projects under her belt and was currently in
the middle of moving across the country with most of her possessions in her
car.
Linda asked me if I had a booth reserved and
I told her no; I was just there to learn more about the Horror genre and how to
fit in with it. I told them I had published two short stories and they
applauded my accomplishments.
I recall Linda saying something along the
lines of “Usually when we talk to newbies and they say they want to be a writer,
they’ve either not finished whatever they’ve written or they haven’t sent
anything off.”
They asked me about my influences and I
rattled off those who had passed like J.F. Gonzalez and Tom Piccirilli and gave
them staples like Stephen King and Dean Koontz.
“But there is one horror author who inspired
me to become a writer in the first place,” I said, a small embarrassed grin on
my face. “I’ve read virtually everything of his and I heard he’s actually
supposed to be here, though I haven’t seen him yet. His name’s Brian Keene.”
Linda and Kelly both started laughing and for
a moment I thought that I had said something incredibly amusing or that Brian
was considered a joke or something, but then Linda said, “Shoot, we can hook
you up. We knew Brian Keene before he was
Brian Keene.”
I might’ve melted to the chair right there as
my heart stopped.
I went into full fan boy mode for a minute,
talking about my love of his work, but after that settled down, I tried not to
be overwhelmed by whom I was rubbing elbows with.
Well that didn’t last long at all.
It might have been 30 minutes or it might
have been three hours (time passes very slowly when you’re wondering if you’re
in some sort of surreal fantasyland where all your heroes are at a hotel bar in
Provo, Utah) but while Linda was saying something to Kelly, I noticed a small,
kind of unassuming man walking towards us.
“Linda!” he said warmly as Linda turned
around, her wild hair flowing around her.
“Dallas!” she replied as they hugged. My
stomach fell out immediately as I recognized him vaguely from his pictures, and
Linda saying his first name all but confirmed it.
She gestured at me and said, “Dallas, this is
a young writer that we’ve found and love. Connor, this is Dallas Mayr, but you
probably know him…” Oh yeah I knew him, but it was still unreal… “as Jack
Ketchum.”
He shook my hand, grimacing a bit at my firm
southern grip (I was raised in Texas; our handshakes aren’t just polite, but project
strength) and we both gave each other the usual pleasantries.
I couldn’t believe it; I was talking to Jack
Ketchum, one of the most monolithic horror authors of the age, a man that Stephen
King himself described as “the scariest guy in America” and one of my writing
inspirations.
Okay Connor, easy, be cool, be cool, act
normal. Don’t nonchalantly lick him to show your admiration.
I found Jack Ketchum to be a rather
personable man who gave the best advice and didn’t turn away anyone who wanted
to talk to him (I learned all of this as the convention went on, at this point
I was still awestruck). He asked me about my writing, cutting me off before I
could tell him anything else because he said he would like to read it someday…
maybe I was imagining things or maybe he wanted to encourage me, either way
such a small thing might as well have been phenomenal praise for a writer
starting out like myself.
I had to return to my room for a bit to make
some calls and tie up some other odds and ends, but I promised Linda, Jack, and
Kelly that I would return momentarily and liked to think that I made that walk
with dignity and nonchalance. As soon as I entered that elevator, though, I
reached out with a hand to brace myself against the wall, my mind whirling in a
vortex of amazement.
So I made it to my room and back composed and
ready to mingle, and it was quite a time; Jack, Linda, and Kelly are quite the
people to talk to and it was very enlightening. Eventually Jack and Linda
decided that it was time to hit the hay, but the question arose: who would wait
up for Brian to get there?
Yours truly volunteered, of course, and Kelly
volunteered to stay up with me. In the rush of meeting Linda and Jack, I
realized that I had not caught Kelly’s last name. Wouldn’t you know I felt like
an idiot when her reply was “Laymon”. For those of you who don’t know, Richard
Laymon was a prolific horror writer whose impact on the genre cannot be
compared. He unfortunately passed in 2001, long before I would have gotten a
chance to meet him.
Kelly was his daughter (you could have
colored me embarrassed). I might have launched into fanboy mode again, telling
her how much I loved her father’s work (I remember vividly reading One Rainy Night in high school), but
there is no proof that I did so unless Kelly feels the need to comment on this
blog post.
We stayed up long into the night waiting for
Brian and telling old tales of love and war and became good friends sitting at
that bar for 3 hours in Provo, Utah. One conversation about Richard Laymon that
stood out was when Kelly said “I have him with me.”
I must’ve looked really concerned, because I
didn’t know that he had been cremated, so I think my subconscious mind just
assumed Kelly had dug up her father and was transporting him across the nation.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been breathing in things that make my mind work
differently than other people’s… eh, what’re you going to do?
Time went slowly and I’m so grateful it did,
but eventually Brian arrived. Kelly and I spotted him immediately and politely
allowed him to check in and drop off his stuff at the hotel room. Kelly assured
me that he would be back down soon, that he would be looking for something to
drink.
Lo and behold, a few minutes later he was and
Kelly introduced us…
And that is a story for next week’s blog
post.
This has only been part one of my adventure
that was WHC. It’s in the top three trips I’ve taken that’ve changed my life
and I will say that every second was worth it. Before that, I was just a guy
who wrote, but when I left I felt it in my heart that I was a writer.
The Coyote had truly been born in that moment
and I set off to chase the roadrunner with zeal.
Wile E.
World News
A man didn’t stand up this week during the playing
of the national anthem at a football game. Time to put my offended hat on and
focus in. Or I’m not, because I focus on things that have true importance in
the world… *sigh* I can already hear the pitchforks and the torches of the mob
outside of my door so just let me add: I think it was in poor taste that he
didn’t stand up. I might not be the biggest fan of America, but I do respect
the idea of it rather than our government’s rape of what it could be and so I
agree that it was in bad taste.
But he has the right to do so and not be
crucified for it, and I understand his reasons for doing so. Protest has taken
all manner of forms over the years, so let’s just be glad that this man has
chosen to protest in a nonviolent, peaceful way rather than through violence.
Last time I checked, this was a country where
you were free to follow your own conscious; let’s see how long that lasts in the
next two decades or so… The best way to deny freedom to people is to divide
them and then build the fence around them while they aren’t looking.
That’s why we need people who truly respect
us and truly respect and love the people who elected them.
Duke is a seven-year-old Great Pyrenees who
was recently re-elected as mayor of Cormorant, Minnesota. He even managed to
beat out a human candidate!
Obviously this dog is doing something right
and all he asks from us in return is kibble… A small sacrifice, I know, but
what wouldn’t you give for political stability?
#DukeforPresident2016, Slogan: Rolling Over
For A Better Tomorrow!
Quote of the
Week
Gr8tstorm: Did Batman find that out by
asking a chair?
Due to the length of this blog post, I will
not be posting a review of a book or film. I know, I know it’s sad, but dry
your tears for salvation is at hand. I will write a review of a book and film
that I have recently read and watched this week to be posted before the onset
of next Thursday.
Joy and rapture all around and something for
all of you to look forward to in the dismal abyss that is the workweek.
Wile E. Young signing off and chasing the
Roadrunner over the abyss. Good thing I brought a jetpack.
