StokerCon
2023, held in Pittsburgh during the same dates as two Taylor Swift concerts,
was a collision of different worlds. Sequins and glitter; girls and young women
in their sparkliest dresses. Zombie and skull T-shirts; black-clad horror fans
in combat boots. For me, though, the collision was more about reality itself,
as dozens and dozens of people I only knew from Twitter manifested in person.
My
first StokerCon in 2019 was an odd affair where I felt transported to middle
school and a world of cliques to which I didn’t belong. My book, Baby Teeth,
had been nominated for Superior Achievement in a First Novel, but I'd never
been to a convention of any kind, nor had I at that point become truly part of
the online community of horror writers and readers. Everyone in 2019 was very
nice, but I'd never felt like such an outsider before, and that was more than a
little daunting. This time around StokerCon was in my backyard, so it was never
in doubt that I would attend. But I was a little unsure about what to expect.
I
can't overstate the degree to which I'm a hermit in my everyday life. Some
people use that term to mean that come Saturday night they prefer
Netflix-and-chill to going out on the town. I use hermit to mean that in any
given week I may not leave the house. Occasionally I need to go out for an
appointment or to do some errands, and if I'm lucky I'll do something fun with
my sister or a friend a couple times a month. But in general, I live my life
within the four walls of my house (plus my deck, which borders a small
greenspace filled with wildlife).
I
started becoming reclusive as a teenager, dealing alone with health problems,
and as I became more removed from the social milestones of my peers, the more
reclusive I became. There were periods of my life when I made concerted efforts
to "put myself out there," and there were periods when I was deeply
lonely. It took a long time for me to understand and embrace my solitary
existence, but once I came to terms with it I understood that, for better or
worse, I am just not a person who moves through the world easily. Which brings
us to the social mayhem that was StokerCon 2023.
This
time around I had four published novels under my belt, and hundreds of writer
and reader "friends" online. I was determined to make the most of those
few days, aware that I might not attend another event like this for several
years (or more). It was a whirlwind—and a rare and spectacular pleasure—where
avatars and names turned onto living, breathing people. O, the people I met! I
cannot explain to you how less isolated I feel now to be able to say I
"know" twenty (forty?) more people than I did a few days ago—and some
of them are people whom I hope to be friends with for a long time.
I
stepped out of my comfort zone and organized, via Twitter, a drop-in supper on Day
One of StokerCon as a way to make sure I met a few people. It was wonderful to
sit down with new writer friends and talk shop while literally breaking bread
together—though the restaurant experience was a bit more than I'd bargained for.
In spite of offering fondue, The Melting Pot was not as similar to
Station Square's former home for fondue, The Cheese Cellar, as I thought it
would be. It was a bit too fancy and extravagant, though in the end we did all get
our cheese and chocolate fondues. I think everyone had a good time, and
miraculously we didn't miss any of the Opening Ceremony remarks in spite of
running late at the restaurant.
Because
of all the Swifties in town I ended up pre-booking my Ubers to and from the
convention: as a hermit, one of my absolute greatest fears is getting stranded
somewhere, and word on the street was that it would be impossible to get
rideshares during the days that Taylor Swift and StokerCon overlapped.
Pre-booking turned out to be a reliable (if expensive) form of transportation,
though it cut down on my ability to be spontaneous. I was just starting to chat
at the Opening Ceremony with folks I'd really looked forward to meeting when Uber
announced my driver's early, one-minute arrival (without previous warning).
Once I was home I needed to unwind and get ready for Day Two, but I soon learned that my brain had other ideas. I was exhausted, but I had a hard time sleeping during StokerCon. Whenever I shut my eyes I was transported into a busy mob of people—people talking, walking back and forth, yelling to be heard over other people, holding out their hand to greet me. I didn't have any strategies for quieting my thoughts except to lie still and hope they would dissolve eventually. And somehow, for those few days, I managed to function on less sleep than normal.
Day
Two was my busiest day in terms of being a public person: I was part of a
panel, and then later participated in the Mass Author Signing. I may be biased,
but I think my Friday panel was one of the best of the convention. Called
"Monstrous Mothers and the Women Who Write Them," we had a very
competent moderator and a panel full of smart, articulate women. If given more
time, there was much more we could have discussed, but everyone on the panel
had equal time to speak, and the large audience seemed fully engaged. On a
personal note, one of my answers earned the audience's applause—and that was a
wonderful, affirming experience that made me feel a little more confident in
that moment.
Confidence
is a constant struggle for me, and speaking publicly has become a source of
tremendous anxiety since going through menopause. For a couple of years now
I've had Menopause Brain—which is a real fucking thing that no one ever talks
about. If I had to sum it up I'd call it a Confidence Killer. Or to be more
visceral, I'd say that where once I was fully conscious, now I'm swimming beneath
the frozen surface of a lake, hoping to find a crack in the ice before I drown.
I frequently experience a loss of access to my once-effortless thoughts, which
makes public Q&A's extremely taxing. Now I'm not always sure if I'll find
the thing I'm trying to think about, which turns extemporaneous speaking into a
particular kind of nightmare.
My
Menopause Brain peaked during the release of my fourth novel, Mothered. Somehow
I've been able to get through my handful of interviews and author events, but
it has been nerve-wracking. I'm left to believe that from the perspective of
others everything appears normal. Within myself, I experienced my StokerCon
panels as swimming beneath the ice, hoping I'd find a timely connection to
fresh air—which, in this metaphor, are my thoughts and words.
It
is a very strange thing to be a writer with a broken brain. Most of the time I
am home, alone, and it doesn't matter if I need an extra minute to connect the
synapses in my head. My memory, always bad in certain areas, is now atrocious,
and the brain fog I was lamented over now sounds like something quaint when compared
to the deadening thickness that I sometimes find crammed inside my skull. All
of this to say: it felt like a victory to be part of such a lively and
thoughtful panel discussion.
The
Mass Author Signing didn't require a lot of brain power, just a lot of smiling
and thanking people. When I attended my first Mass Author Signing in 2019 I was
left feeling like a bit of an ass: I hadn't realized there was a book
selling component to the event, and I was empty handed (empty tabled, more
accurately). In 2019, my assigned table was at the end of a distant hallway,
under a burned out light, and the handful of people who came by asked,
"You don't have any books for sale?" No. I had bookmarks and
bookplates. I was clueless. And clueless, too, when one of the people who asked
me to sign a bookplate turned out to be someone rather famous (I Googled them
after they left my table). It wasn't a great moment, and I was determined to
redeem myself in 2023.
In
my effort for redemption, I filled my half of the assigned table with copies of
all my books. I had hardcover first editions, audiobooks, international
versions of Baby Teeth—I brought a sampling from my closet full of
author copies. It was probably overkill (and overcompensation), but people came
by and wanted their books signed—books they brought from home, books they
bought from the Dealer Room, books they bought from my smorgasbord of
offerings. It was mayhem. It was stuffy and loud in the crowded room. But it
was wonderful chaos. And my tablemate was lovely and his good humor kept me
calm. (If I ever again do a Mass Author Signing I'll learn from my two experiences and bring half as much stuff to sell.)
By
Day Three I was becoming weary, looking forward to returning to a more normal
routine, while also looking forward to my final, and more relaxing, day at
StokerCon. My schedule for the day was to appear on one panel, and then attend
(or drop in on) as many panels as I could. Soon after finding a quiet place to
sit and relax before my "Different Paths into Darkness" panel, I
recognized an author heading my way: she'd come to my fondue meet-up, and was a
fellow "Different Paths" panelist. (I'm intentionally not dropping any
names in this wrap-up, as no one asked to be part of my story—and there's
always the danger of making others feel left out if I only mention a few people
by name.)
The
"Different Paths" panel went by way too quickly—again, there was so
much more I wanted to say—so I may actually write an essay about that at some
point. Afterward I sat on the floor at the back of a packed conference room,
eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as I listened to a few minutes of the
"Publicity of Horror Fiction" panel. By the next panel, through no
fault of the panelists, I felt my eyes starting to shut and I was ready for a
nap. A short time later, I went home. My last Uber driver of the convention
arrived playing Taylor Swift music. After one look at me he explained, "I
thought I was picking up a Swiftie," and turned the music off. (Though I
wasn't wearing black, I also wasn't sparkly.)
There
is a certain kind of collective high that one experiences when engaged in a
large group activity. But soon—after a good night's sleep—the dreamy quality of
the experience starts to fade. StokerCon 2023 was more than I'd hoped it would
be, and yet I'm still left alternately saying to myself "You were a
moron" and "You did it!" In truth, things got off to a rocky
start when I went to the special Horror Archives event the day before the con
officially kicked off. I'd thought it was going to include a lecture or
presentation—I came prepared to take my seat and listen—but to my horror, it
was a party. I felt unprepared, and alone. A part of me was even regretting
that I'd committed to the next three days of the convention. And maybe I
would've chickened out if it hadn't been for two people—who must have seen my
awkwardness, and made a point of conversing with me. Thank you, people whom I
shall not name.
In
one regard I feel better prepared to attend such large events in the future.
But in other ways, I recognize just how unlikely it is that I'll ever be a
traveler, attending conventions or going on tour. As I said earlier, I don't
move easily through the world. I'm incredibly grateful to everyone who said
hello to me, who smiled and waved, who shook my hand or gave me a hug, who
spoke to me—in the crowded hallways between panels, or in other random places. I'll
try not to chastise myself too much for being less socially accomplished than I
might like. And please know that I loved meeting every single one of you!
