For
about two years now, I’ve had friends from all over the world telling me that I
had to go to NECON, that it was the best writing conference out there, that it
was all about family, all about support and celebrating what we do as artists.
As most of you know, writing is lonely. It’s a very solitary kind of craft. We
spend most of our time alone making up stories in order to connect with others,
and truth be told, even if we are out in public, we’re still probably lost
somewhere in our heads, talking to our characters, building our worlds. For
this reason—amongst others—I find writing conferences to be extremely uplifting
to my mood and to my creativity. So after all the late night talks at World
Horror, I decided to drink the Kool-Aid—which I actually learned is called a Staggering
Squirrel—and go to NECON. I bought my membership, a last minute plane ticket,
and before I knew it, I was in the sky and on my way to Rhode Island.
I
had no idea what to expect when I got there, but I was met with big hugs from
old friends, and warm welcomes from new ones. It was great to finally put some
faces to names as I moved through the conference and met people that I’ve been
reading and communicating with online for quite some time. I attended great
panels—my favorite being The Best Monsters in Modern Horror—ate saugies, drank
Staggering Squirrels (which side note, I will not be doing next year) and had great conversation and many, many
laughs. The great thing about NECON is
that it gives you the opportunity to be yourself in a relaxed environment and
just be. We stood around a campfire and listened to people play the guitar, we
watched the sun come up in the courtyard, and we told ghost stories and just
enjoyed each other’s company. And maybe it’s just because I’m a writer and I
appreciate the importance of words, but there is nothing better in this world
than having good conversation with people, and when you can talk at ease with those
you admire and love, it becomes something more than a discussion about books,
about business, about life.
It’s
becomes a comradery.
A
friendship.
A
family.
And
speaking of family… I also got invited to spend time with another very special clan
that I’m sure you’ve all heard about: The Borden’s. Yes, my love for all things
paranormal and disturbing sent me to Fall Rivers, MA with Sephera Giron, Gardner Goldsmith, Dennis Cummins and Heather Graham Pozzessere and her husband, to spend the night with Lizzie Borden and learn about the infamous axe
murderess. We walked the house, heard the stories, and reenacted the murders. It was surreal to lay in the spot where Abby
died, to sit on the couch where Andrew was bludgeoned 11 times in the face. We
got to see the autopsy boards were they were laid out, got to spend time in the
basement where Lizzie found solace twice after the murderers, and then we got
to pick our rooms.
I
have a ritual when I spend the night at places like this. I don’t like to make
blind decisions about where I’m going to sleep. I normally walk through all the
rooms in the location and see how I react mentally/physically to the space.
Part of me wanted to stay in Lizzie’s room just because I wanted to say that I
did it, but I had no reaction to either of the places that she called her own while
she lived there. However, when I made my way up to the third floor—the attic—I
knew this was going to be it. I walked into the room of Bridget Sullivan—the Borden’s
Maid—and was immediately overcome with paranoia and anxiety. I kept looking
over my shoulder expecting to see someone as the room felt very crowded to me.
I felt my body go cold and I wanted to get the hell out of there ASAP. So
naturally, I did the opposite: I brought my suitcase upstairs, unpacked, and claimed
the room as my own. Then, to top things off, I went downstairs and had birthday
cake for Lizzie while I looked at the autopsy photographs and ate on the table
where her family was briefly laid out.
Totally
good luck if you ask me.
But
back to Bridget. In my opinion, Bridget was involved in the case, maybe not directly,
but definitely during the aftermath. If you look into the murders, Bridget has
a solid alibi, but there’s something about the way things were handled
afterwards that doesn’t quite add up: the clean up, the disposal of the clothes,
the weapon, how she came into money after Abby and Andrew’s deaths, how she skipped
town. It seems a little suspicious to me. Plus, throw in the fact that she wouldn’t
talk during the trial, and even if she did, how she didn’t say a single bad
word about anyone, especially Lizzie. Now naturally, during that time, it wasn’t
wise to speak out about your employers for fear of not getting another job, but
there’s also a flip side to that.
Maybe
she was afraid of talking.
Maybe
she was afraid for her own life.
I
think that’s why I got the anxious feeling when I walked into the room. Plus,
there’s this terrifying rocking chair in the corner that you just know is going
to kill you the second you fall asleep…which probably accounts for the reason I
didn’t get much shut-eye that night. The sleep that I did get was wrought with
horrible nightmares. I was in the attic, pacing the hallway, wringing my hands
together in panic. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what, so I
came back into the room and laid down. The rocking chair was violently moving
back and forth and then there was a woman standing over me screaming, screaming
for help.
When
I woke up, I saw that rocking chair rocking, swinging back and forth. The only
problem is that I can’t account that it really happened. I have a tendency to
stay in my dreams after I wake up. I still see whatever or whoever it is for a
few moments as I’m coming out of the dream so it’s hard for me to delegate fact
versus fiction in those moments. Do I personally think it happened? No. But it
was enough of a scare to get my heart racing and to make stay awake for the
rest of the night.
This
was the first place I didn’t write in.
Case
in point, I was too scared.
I
think it will be different next year when I go back and I’ll definitely be able
to get a grasp on things and get some writing done, but this year, it was more
or less about surviving the night, about making sure I stayed alive.
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