Portsmouth, NH
June 4th-8th
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| Typing my blog with Tony Tremblay's computer |
We came from all ends of the continent. Some from Colorado, others California, Oregon,
Vermont and Maine. There were even Canadians, such as myself, descending from
the north and taking New England by storm. My flight left Edmonton in the
early hours of the morning and rather than fly straight as an arrow east to
Boston, I was southbound to Dallas Fort Worth where I caught a connecting
flight some hours later. I landed in Boston at around 7:30 PM and found the car
rental agency after jumping into or rather, putting on, a Kia Forte, I braved
the crazed Boston commuters and headed north to Portsmouth, NH.
An hour later, I
arrived to meet author Gord Rollo in the lobby. I shook his hand, said, “Hi.” —and
checked into my room where I sent Philip Perron a message.
“Where
are you?” I texted.
“In
the lobby,” he replied.
“Shit,
I must have walked right passed you.”
I
gave him my room number and got out of the elevator and that’s where I met
Kristi Peterson Schoonover. I don’t think she recognized me at first, I was
wearing a hat. No bald head giveaway. I called down the hall to her. “Schoonover?”
“MJ?”
“In
the flesh.” We hugged.
Kristi
and I have conversed over the web for a number of years
 |
| Contract negotiations with Great Old Ones: Phil Perron |
and share a love of the
Dark Discussions Podcast. I have always considered Kristi a friend and was
looking forward to meeting her in person. She is a great writer and has a
bubbly personality that is infectious to a group. Besides that, she had
promised to by me a martini and also had brought up a banner for me from Connecticut.
So,
after hooking up with Phil and Kristi, I made way down stairs for a drink where
I met Sydney Leigh, Ron Dickie, Andrew Wolter (who I mistook for Syd’s guy) and
of course Tony Tremblay, who I will forever think of as Mr. New England. I was
settling in for the prelude to Anthocon, because we were just the first bunch.
Later,
I heard my name called once again down the hall. “Hey! MJ Preston!” I turned,
did not recognize the lady until she introduced herself.
“I’m
Alex Scully.”
Next
thing you know I am in the Scully’s room, with Gord Rollo, Gene ONeil and a
bunch of other folks. First thing I hear is: “MJ Preston! I’m so glad to meet
you.” Up walks this muscular tanned dude and sticks out his hand. “Jon Kelley.”
“Holy
shit!” I say and shake vigorously thinking. How
the hell do all these people know me?
The
nucleus of this gather is B.E. Scully (Bobbi to her friends) addressing the
group of perhaps twenty while holding up a cellophane wrapped piece of cheese. “It’s
a little earthy,” she says as she unwraps the wedge producing what she says is
a local blue cheese. Being the last to enter the room she turns to me and asks,
“M.J. would you like to try it.”
At
which I reply, “Thanks, but I generally don’t eat anything with mold in it.”
She
turns to Gord Rollo, and he stands in cowardly allegiance. “Me either.”
I
do agree to give it a sniff and my nasal passages deliver the most disgusting—
foul—vomit inducing fragrance to the synapses
It was, what
I think of when I hear environmentalists talk about how farting cows are cause
the earth to warm. I rub my nose, drink my beer, trying to un-smell this putrid
stench. Through the haze, I can hear Alex Scully laughing uncontrollably.
Before I can warn the others, Fan Boys and Fools alike, line up like sheep to take
communion. She breaks of a piece at a time and they declare how wonderful the
cheese tastes. Patronizing fools, the lot of them.
This is madness, I think.
When
the lambs have sacrificed their senses and engaged in this unholiest of
communions, I lean over to Bobbi and say. “Be honest, you got that out of the
dumpster behind the Cheese Store. Didn’t you?”
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| F. Paul Wilson schools me on semicolons. |
“Oh
no, I bought it locally and paid a fair penny for it,” she insists.
“Well,
aren’t you going to have a piece,” I ask.
She
grins sardonically. “Are you kidding? This stuff is disgusting.”
I
almost squirted beer out my nose.
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| Sydney Leigh, Frank Raymond Michaels, Kristi Petersen Schoonover, April Hawks, Rena Mason, Gord Rollo, Gene O'Neill, James Chambers, Diana Catt Alex Scully, Phil Perron, MJ Preston. |
I
have so much to say about Anthocon, but I am limited to what I can say on this
blog and about who I connected with, so I will toss you some of the highlights.
I managed to talk Monty Python's Flying Circus with F. Paul Wilson and traded
stories with Gord Rollo. I talked with Gene O’Neil extensively about writing
who is the coolest, down to earth writer. Gene and Gord actually bought a copy
of my novel Acadia Event, although it was tough getting them passed all the well-wishers
in the vendors room.
of my frontal lobe.
The
next three days involved meeting and greeting, but also exchanging ideas and of
course pushing one’s own work. I was set up next to the Great Old Ones
Publishing table where I did signings and interacted with authors and fans of
the horror genre alike. I got to meet the Dent sisters, Roxanne and Karen, who
were both so charming. I also met my editor, Sara Kelly, face to face and she
posed for a pic with me. It was such a treat. Hours passed without thought and
Acadia found its way into the hands of readers. And of course I acquired a pile
of books as well. To name a few, Bad Apple, by Kristi Peterson Schoonover.
Three editions of: Enter at Your own Risk, edited by Dr. Alex Scully, including
works by too many writers to name, but including a variation of the old Masters
like Mary Shelley and modern day greats like Jonathan Mayberry. I have the
Robot Graveyard which is a collection of shorts by the Sci-Fi juggernaut
Gregory L. Norris and Thom Erb’s Heaven, Hell or Houston. I have a pile more,
from Gene O’Neil’s Lazy K, to Michael Bailey’s Chiral Mad 2. I even picked up
two F Paul Wilson books: Soft and Aftershock. Man, I’m just scratching the
surface. Along with getting these books signed by all of the authors, I had a
chance to talk about writing, about the industry and just plain shooting the
breeze.
While
rocking to the Anthocon ‘classic rock delight’ Four Horseman I was enthralled by
the guitar work of T.G. Arsenault and pleasantly surprised to hear the Scully’s
do their rendition of Mama don’t let your baby’s grow up to be writers. I think
Willy Nelson had a similar song? Plagiarism? I think not. Likely homage.
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| Congrats to Roxanne Dent and Patrick Lacey who won the Ice Road Draw. |
The
weekend concluded with a number of readings. I can’t list them all, but I have
to say that my only complaint would be that we did not slot enough time for the
writers to strut their stuff. Five minutes is but a pittance, and I hope that
next year a good deal more time will be afforded. Among the readings: Patrick
Lacey, Thom Erb, Schoonover, Dent, Scully, Sydney Leigh, and the list goes on. All
the readings were impressive, a few standouts: Patrick Lacey’s: Operation
Parasite, Roxanne Dent’s: Bug Boy, B.E. Scully’s: Metamorphosis, not Metaphors,
and April Hawk’s: Organically Grown. There were many others, equally
impressive, but I fear this blog will morph into a novella, which by the way, I
should be working on now.
Sunday
came far too quickly, I skipped out on another night of festivities as I had to
be on the road by 3 AM for Boston, but I got to take off into Portsmouth with
my pal Philip Perron who really was responsible for inducting me into this
wonderful group. Philip Perron of Dark Discussions Fame. We hit a pub and had a
pint and a meal as we talked casually, about the con, about writing, about our
passion for horror. He truly is the gentleman, liked by everyone, a great guy
and a true friend. Thank you, Phil.
In
closing, I can’t forget to mention Tony Tremblay whom I thought of as: Mr. New
England. Tony was relentless with his camera, documenting the con, but doing so
with a gentleman’s petition, also polite to ask, never a paparazzi. One other
credit goes out to: Ogmios the Artist, who has been illustrating a short story
I wrote called: SKIN: End of the Line. This guy has an amazing eye and he was
also a great buddy. Wow, this is
starting to sound like the Academy Awards, so I will wrap it up here. Thanks,
to everyone, sorry if I missed your name, but be assured that I was impacted by
all of you and never felt so welcome. I
hope to see you next year, but now I must sign off, grab some cough medicine
and get down to work.
Catch you next time...
M
Author note: Many of the photos on this blog were courtesy Tony Tremblay, Marianne Halbert, and Philip Perron. My thanks to them for sharing.
