“What are all these weirdos doing here?” asked a woman.
“Some kind of horror movie convention,” answered her companion. “They’re everywhere.”
“It’s the World Horror Convention,” I piped up, and I suddenly felt so proud and relieved to be included in this group of “weirdos.” “We’re mostly writers and authors.” Embarrassed silence took over the rest of the ride until I got off on my floor, smiling.
Since I published End of Mae I have had an author identity crisis. I learned early on that “horror” carried a stigma that I have tried to rid myself of. I’ve denied it, tried to write in other genres, tried not to enjoy Marilyn Manson quite so much and grow up. It’s been a long process of denial.
Coming to the World Horror Convention is possibly the best thing I’ve ever done for myself as an author. I can tell we all enjoy many of the same things and have similar thought processes. There’s no judgement, only appreciation and the joy that comes from so much happy morbidity radiating from everyone. I feel like I have found a family.
Proud to be one of the weirdos, I am now off to the ball. :)