I figured out why it was that I kept putting off writing about Mo*Con: history. Kelli Dunlap and I discussed this during one of our early-morning Garage Talk sessions — as writers, we have this special magical power to rewrite the parts of history that we don’t like.
And you are all at our mercy.
What happens at conventions? What happened last night? Last week? Last year? Whatever I decide to tell you about. Every crummy moment in my life is dressed up in pretty words and fingerpaints before I tout it for public consumption, and I continue to live in that perfect Ivory Tower that gleams mockingly at you from the horizon. I choose which juicy ripe memories in my basket will be immortalized, and I leave the rotten ones in the field for the birds.
That mess is just going to get forgotten anyway.
That’s just one of the ways we brighten our own lives, and yours, and that lady’s over there. It’s how we improve the world and leave it a more beautiful place than we found it.
The dilemma comes when we live through a time so wonderful and amazing and meaningful and dripping in perfect bliss that our writing just isn’t good enough. My dictionary doesn’t have those words. My paints aren’t available in those colors. I’m not sure the letters or hues exist that could accurately depict the shining memories I’ve been playing over and over in my head all week.
THAT was Mo*Con.
I had been looking forward to the con but I wasn’t sure to expect. Tim Waggoner had to bow out for Father’s Day plans. Geoffrey Girard cancelled at the last minute. And there would be no whiskey-drinking trash-talking Magic card Keenefest, no guarantee of any such peaceful moments of Zen.
Anticipation bred apprehension. Just because I had found nirvana last year didn’t mean I was going to again. So I bought a huge stack of books and dove headfirst into a week-long Mamatas-inspired baking marathon to prepare…I wanted the Indiana Horror Writers to remember how much they loved me.
Turns out, I had it all wrong.
THEY wanted ME to remember how much they loved me.
All the other reports you’ve read are true: Yes, I did go treasure hunting in a cemetery with Kelli and Lauren and Mark Rainey, and yes, the local police put an end to our business. Yes, the Mother Grove concert was a blast, and I posted the YouTube clip to prove it. Yes, Gary Braunbeck talked about my breasts more than once. Yes, we witnessed the musical stylings of Matt Cardin. Yes, Nick awed us all with his Feats of Strength. Yes, the food was delicious, and yes, the baklava was a hit. Yes, we stayed up until at least 3am every night. Yes, we probably talked about you. Yes, there were tai chi lessons and fireflies and shooting stars. Yes, hell rained down and grounded most of the GoHs, and yes, there was a Mo*Con III.2. And nope, you’re not going to hear about that night from me either.
And yes, the IHW did induct Keene and me into their ranks as honorary members; my official title is “Princess.” (I didn’t see Keene‘s certificate, but it might have said “Saten.”) I blushed and stammered through what is now known as the “Doug Warrick’s Awesome Handshake” speech and realized two things: a princess should always have a speech prepared, and she should NEVER, EVER forget her tiara. (*smacks forehead*)
Best of all, Maurice gave me a knight to watch over me.
He has a place of honor in my Ivory Tower, and I polish his armor shiny with my memories.