I’m two hours out from Cross Plains, Texas, and my thoughts are, much like the proceeding 20 hours, ruminating over the pair of fantasy authors named Howard that died far too young that led me on this trek.

I’m on my way to Howard Days 2025, the two-day celebration of the life and work of the godfather of sword-and-sorcery himself, Robert E. Howard. It’s been mecca for his fans and successors for almost four decades, and every sword-and-sorcery devotee I know hopes to make pilgrimage at least once.

The other is Howard Andrew Jones, who passed away from cancer this past January, and whose absence still festers like an open wound. Recently, it’s because we’d made plans to both attend our first Howard Days last year, and I’d had to pull out at the last moment. He’s described it as a spiritual experience, and I promised to meet him back this year at Howard Days this year. I don’t give oaths to lightly, or break promises to friends.

[Click the images for Robert-E-Howard-sized versions.]

With those two rattling around in my braincase, passing west of Dallas, where the Texan landscape begins the transition to the red soils scrubbrush of the American west, whose post oaks and sand roughs lent themselves to the name of Howard’s autobiography, I pull into Cross Plains early Friday, help with set up, and take in the town.

Cross Plains is at first glance, is achingly familiar to anybody who has passed through the small towns of the American South, or like myself, lived in them. It’s a pretty a solid showcase of Texan culture, too, for those whose only exposure has been big cities like Houston or Dallas, with rodeos on the weekend, a strong high school football program (which I’m dismayed to report, does not have “Barbarians” as a mascot), and a barbecue hosted by the local fire department. You could pass through the town and never know it was the home of America’s premier fantasy author – even to some of the locals – Mark Twain’s Hannibal, Missouri or Ernest Hemmingway’s Key West this is not.

Howard Days changes that, as highlighted by some of the tours of the town put together by both the Robert E. Howard foundation and the local group, Project Pride. The local newspaper, The Cross Plains Review, which as a former newspaperman myself, I commend for its resilience, puts out a series of merchandise, and showcases Howard’s own boxing gloves in their office. The Cross Plains Public Library has a display of Howard’s own manuscripts, and a collection of vintage Howard hardcovers and issues of Weird Tales that would make the heart of any bibliophile salivate.

And the tours themselves, be it the walking tours of the town, or the bus tour, this year delivered by Mark Finn, reveal just how much of Robert E. Howard’s own Cross Plains lingers in plain sight, be it some of the shooting locations from The Whole Wide World, or what the buildings in downtown Cross Plains were during Howard’s time – seeing the ice house where Howard boxed and locals smuggled booze around prohibition being a particular highlight.

The commentary from all comers adds a lot to the experience as well – I myself was somewhat surprised to hear how a lot of locals even decades later held very negative memories of Robert E. Howard, thinking him the local oddball, even as his reputation elsewhere skyrocketed. Several locals from Project Pride and the library admitted even today, there is a divide among Cross Plains residents if they want to play up Robert E. Howard’s role in the town or not.

As for the Howard Days event itself, the vibe and atmosphere if different from near any other event in science fiction and fantasy fandom. Not just because it’s largely outdoors, or the laser-guided focus on a single author, but because of the attendees themselves. In terms of raw numbers, it’s a couple hundred people, about on par with most smaller conventions, but the number of people here who are major figures, if not outright legends within Howard fandom and sword-and-sorcery.

I speak with Rogue Blades Entertainment maestro Jason M. Waltz and legendary illustrator Bill Cavalier who were both set up in the small vendor village. I stumble into Adrian Simmons of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and scholar and columnist Jeff Shanks in line for hot dogs at lunch, where our conversation about sub-rights and anthologies is promptly joined by Mark Finn. I stumble into authors Steven L. Shrewsbury and Chuck E. Clark while on one of the tours of the town.

Howard Andrew Jones had described it to me as being like a pilgrim who had finally made it to Jerusalem, or a distant cousin who’d finally made the family reunion, both descriptions very apt for the gathering.

If this be Jerusalem, the Howard House is its Western Wall, and I had my chance to pass through the hallowed halls that birthed Conan, Soloman Kane and so many others that first afternoon.

I will admit some trepidation – I’d long ago made plans to come here and the Audie Murphy Museum in Greenville while still in the military over a decade ago, and now I’m finally here.

Years of dedication and volunteer work from countless people are to be commended for restoring the home to how it existed when the Howard family lived here over a century ago. There are pictures of what it looked like as a derelict when Rusty Bruke and those first dozen Robert E. Howard fans first came to Cross Plains in 1986, and all the efforts of years to turn it into the museum it is today are nothing short of heroic.

It was wonderful, in the truest sense of the word. To see his bookshelves, the famous bedroom window his mother could see him at his desk from, walls lined with posters and memorabilia spanning a century, and articles about Robert E. Howard from outlets ranging from the National Review to Japanese light novels.

The small gift shop is also wonderful. I admit seeing a small swell of pride seeing several stacks of the Baen Robert E. Howard paperback collections – one set of those had been part of my “Welcome to Baen” goodie basket a few years back. An earlier copy of its Solomon Kane had been part of a military care package I’d received while racked up half dead of pneumonia, responsible for rekindling a love for Robert E. Howard that had dimmed since my teen years.

It’s Howard’s room that more than anything else takes one’s breath away, restored nearly exactly to how it was when Two Gun Bob himself would spend hours behind the typewriter in this very spot. How many worlds and heroes were born here? How many authors and readers had their entire lives changed forever because of the man behind that desk?

One of the volunteers with Project Pride must have seen me starring, because with a quick peek around the corner, she asks if I’d like a closer look, and after a nod, lifts rope and ushers me into the room.

I remember a picture from last year, when Howard Days revealed they had at last recovered this, the very desk that Robert E. Howard himself had penned every story he’d ever told. Around it, are John C. Hocking, Jim Zub and Howard Andrew Jones, each smiling like children on Christmas morning.

My fingers graze the corner of the desk, and I feel a lump in my throat starring at the typewriter and stack of books atop it.

“Howard, I am here.”

(We have panel videos for each of them, links sent ahead)

As with so many smaller genre events, the panels may well be the most underrated part of Howard Days, and the event should be proud to know each were standing room only.

Topics ranged from covering Howard’s caveman stories like “Spear and Fang,” to the zenith of his career in 1935, and a lively interview with the Guest of Honor Mark Wheatley. I learned a great deal — I had no idea we’d shared an alma matter, Virginia Commonwealth University, and had both gotten in trouble with the college newspaper.

There were also the Robert E. Howard Awards, which are always a rare genre award highlight for me. The Costigan Award this year alone boasts a nominee list stronger than the past decade of the Hugo Awards in my humble opinion.

I even got to play a small part — I will forever cherish getting to tell John C. Hocking he’d won and sharing his response and acceptance speech which he commendably penned on the spot.

I got to speak at some length afterward with Bill Cavalier, and among other things, he asks my impression of Howard Days and the awards. I said it was overwhelming, and did admit I was sad Howard Andrew Jones didn’t win this year.

His response is something I’ll also always cherish – he chuckled, and said:

“He’ll be back here – after all, whoever said lifetime achievement is limited to one’s own lifetime?”

It stuck with me – and it’s certainly a truism at an event dedicated to the life and work of an author who died nearly a century ago.

That night, I sit with a score of others on the lawn of the Howard House, and watch as Mark Finn, Jeff, Shanks and Chris Gruber perform readings from Robert E. Howard’s boxing stories on the porch, with a passion that was utterly infectious.

I talk with Steven L. Shrewsbury about the draft for a novel he sent me, and notes I hope to have for him once I get home and rested. I drive Chuck E. Clark to the hotel where his family is staying south of Cross Plains, and we swap stories, hammer out plot details for our various works in progress, and talk about the challenges of traveling with young families.

We stop long enough to take in the stars above the Texas desert, the same night sky that hung above the head of Howard for much of his life, and they are magnificent.

It’s early Saturday morning, and I make a small jaunt back into Brownwood for two purposes, to grab breakfast from a Whataburger, and finally head to Greenleaf Cemetery to pay my respects at the final resting place of Robert E. Howard himself. I find it after a few laps of the cemetery – to future visitors, avoid my mistake and just head straight and turn at the second right – and there it is. Beside his mother and father, the grave of the one and only Robert E. Howard.

I’d love to say I felt a stirring of something profound standing beside his tombstone, but truthfully, the main thing I felt was just what a grievous loss it was to lose a man so talented to suicide at 30. Here lies Robert E. Howard, a man whose work still casts a shadow across multiple genres, a hero and inspiration to millions of readers, and save perhaps maybe Tolkien and Jordan, the most influential fantasy author of the past century. Here I stand, Sean CW Korsgaard, half a decade older than he ever lived to see, a body of work thus far paltry compared to many of his acolytes, much less Howard himself, wondering if I’ll ever measure up. It was an immensely humbling moment.

I said my words, left coins on the top and books at the bottom as per tradition, and went back to Cross Plains for the second day’s events.

Yet once back in Cross Plains, there had been a change in the energy, subtle, but there it was. I stopped to pick up an energy drink, and a local stopped me, asking about the disabled veteran plates on my car. The man was a Marine who’s just re-enlisted to join the US Army special forces, and he asked if I was in town for Howard Days. I said I was, and he admitted, even as a local, he’d never read a word of Howard and wanted to know what made him so special.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember the passion I’d felt saying it, describing how he wrote with a warrior’s heart, his prose practically leaps of the page, a blood and thunder that so many seek to imitate, and precious few ever approach with the same ease and skill. Something I’d said left a mark, because he smiled and promised to hit up Howard Days today.

That passion did not abate when back at Howard Days. I sat with Jason Waltz for a bit, and did my part to help him sell a few books. I stop by Bill Cavalier and Mark Wheatley’s tables, and make a point to tell them both how much their artwork had moved me over the years. I shake the hands of every man from the Robert E. Howard Foundation, thanking them for all the years of effort to preserve the work and memory of Howard. I talk editing with Mark Finn over lunch, and subrights and more with Jeff Shanks after a panel.

I didn’t feel like a fraud anymore. I felt like part of the fellowship.

I make one last tour of the Howard House – I see the local Marine I’d spoken with earlier, a handful of newly purchased Robert E. Howard tomes in his hands, and smile knowing that fellowship just gained another member.

I leave Howard Days before the Saturday night poetry readings, denying myself a chance to hear some of Robert E. Howard’s incredible poetry performed on his porch, and denying other attendees mine own recitation of the “The Road of Kings.” To quote an old country song, it’s a long way to Richmond, after all.

Yet if I came to Cross Plains and Howard Days fixated on the past, I leave it also thinking on the future. Story beats, freelance pitches, the juices flowing as they haven’t in months, and yes, on what needs to be done for me to return to Howard Days again.

And I WILL make a pilgrimage to Cross Plains again. Next year is the 40th anniversary of Howard Days, the 30th anniversary of The Whole Wide World, and the 90th anniversary of Robert E. Howard’s death, so it will be a more special year than most. Yet even were it not, I came away with a greater understanding of what has made generations of scholars and authors dedicate themselves to Robert E. Howard, and why so many more, myself included, seek to follow not only in Howard’s footsteps, but theirs as well.