I'm writing this in my hotel room at NECON, the Northeastern Writers' Conference. I have to admit, it can be a little intimidating walking in to a conference center filled with some of the sickest, most twisted minds that horror has to offer, but I like to come prepared. Before I come to one of these events, I write up a list of fun topics and conversation starters in case I find myself face-to-face with F. Paul Wilson and can't interest him in the pictures of the time I met Duran Duran. Here was my list for this year:

1. Brush up on your serial killers. Many writers base their novels on real-life events, and find this subject fascinating. I found myself on the first day sitting next to Dallas Mayr (Jack Ketchum) and was able to successfully entertain him with tales of a serial cannibal I once knew. These kinds of sure-fire conversation starters are key to any horror convention.

2. Pick a side: Lovecraft or Poe? You just can't be ambivalent about this topic. If you're going to go to a convention of writers, you'd better love one and hate the other, and be able to defend your side vehemently. Otherwise, Darryl Schweitzer will peg you as an imposter faster than you can say "Cthulhu."

3. Watch as many obscure scary movies as possible before attending. The only thing horror writers like more than a creepy story is a scary movie. There also seems to be a tendency among this group to find the most ambiguous film ever made and make you feel like a giant lump of stupid if you haven't seen it. Heard today over lunch: "You haven't seen 'When Hell Comes to Frog Town'? It's only Rowdy Roddy Piper's best cinematic performance of his career. I'm sorry, I can no longer continue speaking to you, you giant lump of stupid."

4. Be prepared to have your favorite Stephen King novel completely skewered. Another popular activity for horror writers: espousing on why Stephen King is a hack. You thought The Stand was fabulous? Blind meadow voles could sniff out a better novel. Did you find Bag of Bones entertaining? You are an incompetent boor who should be eaten alive by blind meadow voles. Why on earth would you be so foolish to think that the most popular author on the planet could actually write a good story? (I suspect this is such a favorite activity among horror writers because they might be a tad jealous. However, this has not prevented me from trashing Under the Dome in select circles.)

There you have it: a primer on blending in among horror's literary elite. I would write some more tips, but I am currently being dragged outside and tied to a stake so that I can be eaten alive by blind meadow voles.

One of the reasons why I enjoy gardening so much is because of the joy it brings not just to me, but others as well.  For instance, my sister. We have kind of a co-op garden, where we both go in on the plants and the mulch and she helps with the weeding.

I let her plant some stuff that she likes, since we have the room. She chose  zucchini. I hate zucchini, but it makes her happy, so I'm happy. Except that last week when I was weeding zucchinizilla, I twisted my back and popped something in my knee. I hobbled around the garden, struggling to finish pulling up stray milkweed plants without falling over, when I noticed the neighbor in his yard with some of the kids that live in the area. "Can I offer you a zucchini?" I asked (moaned, really. My back hurt like @!@#!)
"No, no," the neighbor said. "I just wanted to show the kids what will happen if they don't exercise and eat right all winter and then try to be Farmer Suzie once the weather gets warmer." The kids looked terrified. I threw my kneecap at him and hobbled inside.

The next weekend, I went out to look at the eggplant, another one of my sister's choices. They'd taken over the garden. You realize, of course, that  I despise eggplant. "Jesus. Mary, mother of God," I griped, picking enough eggplant to keep Sicily in rollantini for years to come. A little while later, while I was sticking the hoe up my nose in an effort to stuff my spine back where it belongs (growing old is no fun, I tell you) I noticed our pastor in the yard, watching me and shaking his head. He was surrounded by his Sunday School class.
"Eggplant?" I offered, lobbing one at him before he could answer. He ducked, then shook his head again.
"I just wanted to show the kids what happens when you take the Lord's name in vain. You have a little bit of spinal cord sticking out of your ear, by the way."
Pastor "K" was ticking me off. My woes were not due to a few loosely flung "J" words. They were due to the fact that I'm pushing 40 and my joints are deteriorating at an alarming rate. I decided to ignore him and check on the watermelon. The watermelon was my choice - it's one of my favorite fruits.
"Hail Mary, full of grace," I started, dropping to my knees.
"You're not Catholic," my pastor reminded me.
"Do you see these plants? Clearly, divine intervention is called for," I wailed. The pastor lectured the kids on what happens when you turn away from your chosen faith as I continued to say a few more Hail Marys and a prayer to Saint Peregrine for healing just to be safe.  Alas, while I was doing this, the last of the withering watermelon strangled itself with its own vine, which I'm positive the Catholic Church frowns upon.
Sure, some other people might have given up at this point. But I figure, with the joy my sister is getting from the plants I hate, and the faith I've inspired in the local youth, plus the healthy eggplant dishes the neighborhood kids are going to be eating for the next three years, it's all worth it. Even the traction and the wrath of God.
A slice of watermelon sure would have been nice, though.