All The Love Within Us

A Stoker Con 2024 Recap

It is my firm and likely immovable belief that all things are drifting toward an eventual and inescapable goodness. That all space and time are piloted by Love’s invisible hand. A hand set firmly upon the cosmic wheel, guiding each and every moment and choice and circumstance wrought by the rules of the cosmos unto a great surrender. A universal compromise where power and the want for more of it within the human heart is set aside, and joy, robed in deference for each other, takes power’s place. And in this far away location and distant span of time we will, each of us, ring with loud cheers the end of our final advent – this, our supreme jubilee.  

I believe that. I hold fast to it each and every day.

The giving away of love in small and big ways in our world is the evidence which supports and keeps that belief upright. And over the last week, I was overwhelmed by all the love given away at this year’s Stoker Con; the place where love burned hot and bright and wild among a people who are enamored with the examination and transfiguration of the genre of Horror.

I have never been to California before. I once built a false, childhood memory about going there when I was young, only to have it corrected when I was a man. But there was nothing false about this trip. It will forever list itself among my happiest memories. I was able to introduce myself and gush over the likes of genre workhorse Jonathan Mayberry, briefly talk with John Langan, have Ronald Malfi and Rebecca Rowland attend my first ever professional reading, joke with rising Eric LaRocca, and see beyond the literary muscle of Paula D. Ashe, who blushes at every compliment, over a taco dinner. I broke fast with Tanya Pell, a lightning streak of humor and charm, among being an excellent representative of the craft. I lunched with Amanda Casile, all the while hoping that all of you will see her name here and look to find her work that so earnestly asks: “Do you see what I see?” I had dinner with my dear friend and greatest literary supporter and STOKER AWARD WINNING author Sadie “Mother Horror” Hartmann and her kind husband, along with the unapologetically hilarious and generous Kasey Lansdale. Her husband was there, too, and I got the unique opportunity to talk about magic and the greater magic that is birthed inside a child when they see a magician for the first time.

I was floored by the humility and kindness of these people, the soft, strong willingness to meet this relatively obscure Houston author and so graciously give me their time. Struck by the appreciative words of people who had read my work and expressed sincere praise; that they had seen their own faces in the characters I write and the shapes of struggles they, themselves, have known, by reading the body of my work. And I was touched. So deeply touched to speak to James and Sapphire and Aaron Dries and so many others who either came to the panels I was offered a chance to speak or my reading from To Carry A Body To Its Resting Place. And just before my reading was Mort Castle, revealing to every listening ear in that room: “This is what a practiced hand looks like.”

My agent, Becky LeJeune checked in with me regularly, saying hello and supporting and supporting and supporting in a way that is the envy of every author who has had an agent fail to do so. I witnessed L.P. Hernandez, author of In the Valley of the Headless Men, strike a bell in his formal military dress, and from afar during the Mass Author Signing Event, watch him charm the hell out of all those who asked for his signature. I took pictures with people I have only seen online and got a chance to thank Chuck Tingle for reminding all of us that Love Is Real.

A woman, her name lost to me now, told me she could not believe that while reading The Massacre at Yellow Hill, that she had seen a male writer put such compelling women into the narrative of That Light Sublime trilogy. I was recognized for the first time by someone who, interrupting a conversation with the group I was in, said, “Are you C.S. Humble?” And what a hammer-strike blow it was, to have my face seen and for it to bring to mind the work I so desperately love to do.

What a joy. 

What a gift.

I traded manuscripts Joe R. Lansdale’s daughter, provided writing advice, shouted down Southern apology for the Slaver’s Revolt with Mayberry, Jo Kaplan, R.J. Joseph, and K.C. Grifant , traded barbs with peers, experienced the publishing passion living inside Christoph Paul of Clash Books and dabbled in hilarious hypotheticals around a table with brilliant women whose laughter at our silly jokes filled with cloudy night with the starlight of their voices. I was referenced Mother Horror’s Stoker acceptance speech with a personal mantra I shared with her, telling her to: R-E-L-A-X when writing that first draft. 

She didn’t have to mention me, but she did. 

And I got to meet Rae Wilde, who over the last year has become my closest writing companion and my student; my teacher, too. Out of nothing but the generosity living inside her, she offered to share a table with me in the dealers room. We spent hour after hour jesting and critiquing, selling books and having meals and taking pictures with all of these people she said she wanted me to meet. And they were all wonderful, proving her praise true time and time and time again. Up and up and up I went, by Rae’s direction, where she never failed to say, “Oh, have you met Seth Humble?” Our friendship deepened in San Diego and it was all because on a quiet morning in early May of 2023, we met on twitter and realized just how much the two of us are alike. Over the course of that year we have exchanged work regularly, talked about our families, our silly opinions, our enthusiasms and our hopes. She will often call me “Cap,” short for Captain, naturally, for my love for Moby Dick, most likely. I will joking call her Shipmate, because her ego would swell to the size of mine if I didn’t tease her. She often mentions that she’s my protégé, and maybe that was true for a sliver of the year we spent workshopping her tremendous collection I Do Not Apologize For My Position On Men, or her novel that is on sub, or perhaps her novella I Can Fix Her. But, for me, Rae Wilde is already one of the best writers working in the world today; perhaps the best kept secret of the Horror genre. But not for much longer, I think. 

And we were able to meet and laugh, share in the moments that prove: our words hold power, they are the ink that shapes the world. And we refused to say goodbye; rather choosing to trust in the knowledge that all separations are only for a piece, and only for a time.

All of these moments took place in San Diego, California between a Wednesday and a Sunday that, for the rest of the world, was just another work week. For the whole of the Horror community is was the coming together of many associated hearts, each willing enough to be brave enough to tell stories and listen to the thunder inside the strange safety of the Stoker Con storm.

For the rest of those who attended, I am certain the experience provided so much. 

For me, San Diego, will forever be the place where a dream came true. And it was all accomplished by Love. That hand holding the wheel of everything, turning and guiding and leading with an invisible strength that is at its greatest power when it is freely given away. Love for Horror. Love for stories and character and plot and problems and each and every hidden solution waiting to be found. Love for art. 

Love for each other.

My firmest belief is: Love wins. 

Always has, always will. 

And it fills the whole vessel of me to have known that love in San Diego. Because of you.

It was to my great joy to have experienced it. Those hours marked more than the time, they marked my life with the briefest glimpse of our supreme jubilee.