I got back from my first StokerCon yesterday. I was going for work reasons: I was moderating a panel on one of my favourite subjects, horror romance (or horrormance, if the marketing folks get their way), plus listening to pitches from authors who wanted to share their projects with me. An author I work with would be there, so I thought it was a good idea to finally go meet them face to face, a luxury we often don’t get. But (not so) secretly, I really wanted to go to StokerCon for personal reasons. I am a huge fan of horror, a huge fan of horror writers and creators, and a bunch of my friends who I’ve never met would be there, so why not go away for a weekend and have fun soaking up some creepy vibes?
I’m not generally the most social person. I like my friends and I like the occasional group hang out, but I’m not really a wandering around in a giant crowd kind of person. So it was a little daunting to walk into the hotel and see so many people milling around, waiting to check into their respective rooms. There was a moment or two where I thought oh my gosh what am I doing, I don’t know anyone, my friends will think I’m weird, etc etc. Then one of my writer friends (an excellent writer by the way) came walking down the hallway and I instantly felt just a little less trepidation and a little more excitement. We sat down and talked for probably an hour without my ever feeling awkward or weird or worried. It was just carrying on a conversation from the online spaces we frequented, and it was glorious. More folks we knew showed up, and I think I hardly stopped talking for three and a half days.
I met new people. I talked to people I knew, I talked to people I’d only ever seen online, I talked to authors and artists whose work I’d admired for years. And everyone was so kind, so funny, so generous, so excited. I laughed, I got creeped out by our horrible haunted hotel, I had insightful, inspiring conversations with podcasters and artists and writers and editors and agents and publishers. It was incredible, this exchange of ideas. You could feel the crackle and buzz in the air of folks sharing their passions. Reveling in a place to be authentic and sincere. I’ve never been part of anything like it.
I’ve always been called “quirky” or “weird.” I like weird. I love being a little out of the ordinary. But it’s one of the few places I’ve ever been where it felt like everyone was also quirky and weird, and happy to share all that weirdness with each other. When I told someone I loved Cronenberg’s The Fly for its romantic, hopeless love story, I wasn’t met with a look of disgust or confusion, I was met with a “hell yeah.” When I talked about Joe Koch’s Invaginies and how beautiful it was, they wrote down the name of the book so they could buy a copy instead of nodding and smiling, a little unsettled. We talked about our favorite books and films and stories and bands, yes. But some of us also talked about our kids, our pets, our jobs, our hopes, our work, our fears. I had profound moments of connection and understanding and absolute joy in recognizing myself in others, in finding mutual love of art.
I sat with authors pitching their ideas and their stories to me, and I got to give them some insights and some recommendations and sometimes give them hope. I met people who told me how excited they were to read my book, and how much they enjoyed listening to our horror romance panel. I listened to thoughtful, engaging, passionate people talk about the importance of libraries. I went to Horror Prom and gushed over the beautiful outfits. I listened to authors read from their work. I snuck into a probably haunted abandoned room of the hotel, experienced whispering elevators, and a room full of lamps.
I exchanged silent, knowing glances with friends that caused us to erupt into laughter. I traded stories with people about our first horror experiences, our worst horror experiences, our most beloved books. I impulsively agreed to a short podcast interview and was mortified to find out the question asked of me was “what is your biggest fear,” which hopefully I answered satisfactorily (that no one will ever read the book I’m writing). I gained confidence to go up to folks I admired and tell them how much I loved their work. I introduced friends to new friends, and hopefully paid forward every kind word and helping hand I’d been given, though I feel like I can always do more of that.
This was without a doubt a profoundly, beautiful, healing place for me, and I didn’t even know I needed fixing. Having the space to just be myself, be passionate and silly and sincere and smart and still have people want to stick around and chat. I was complimented on my crafting ability, and told I was great to talk to, and asked my opinions on publishing and movies and life and everything. I felt myself leaning in to really listen, and I don’t think I once felt like I was in a conversation where I had to constantly turn over the other person’s words in my head, looking for a way to respond rather than simply living in that moment, in that interaction.
I shared three very special moments with three very special friends and I don’t think I will ever forget them. The first was feeling like a safe place for someone who needed a moment away from the crowds, a short conversation to reconcile roiling thoughts and reenter the fray for both of us. The second was an epiphany during a dinner that rocked me so unexpectedly I almost burst into tears. And the third was the feeling of a peek behind the curtain with a friend who rarely ever lets their guard down and I am deeply touched to know they felt comfortable enough to share.
All of these confessions are basically just a way to say that this convention, this celebration of horror, was truly one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. I always feel like I’m pretty much myself, but StokerCon allowed me to really be, loudly and proudly, a Horror Person. I have never felt so seen and accepted and welcomed. I cannot wait till the next one.