So I almost have everything prepared for the event this weekend, the LA Times Festival of Books. They’re expecting a crowd that could swell to 150,000 people, a small city built out of books, tents, coffee, and conversation. It’s the kind of place where stories don’t just sit quietly on tables, they hum in the air like electricity.
I’ve been going down my checklist like a pilot before takeoff. Books? Packed. Booth? Paid. Credit card reader? Finally getting its moment to shine. Transportation is mostly handled, minus that one loose thread getting to the hotel for a night, but compared to everything else, that feels like a wrinkle, not a tear.
And the business cards? Not this time.
I’ve learned something over the years, something you don’t pick up in textbooks or seminars. Hand someone a business card too early and it can become an exit ticket. A polite “thanks” and they drift off into the crowd like a leaf on a fast-moving river. But a real conversation, that’s different. That’s an anchor. That’s where curiosity turns into connection, and connection turns into a sale, or better yet, a memory. I’d rather be remembered than filed away in someone’s back pocket.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. The kind of nervous that sneaks into your dreams and rearranges your confidence into strange little puzzles. Nightmares about logistics, about things going wrong, about invisible details suddenly becoming very visible at the worst possible time. It’s all part of it. The mind rehearsing chaos so the body can handle reality.
But here’s the truth I keep coming back to.
I’ve been doing this my whole life.
Building a business, preparing for a show, stepping into the unknown… it’s a lot like building a boat. You start with the frame, the rough shape of an idea. Then you patch, sand, adjust, repaint. You obsess over details no one else will ever notice. And at some point, you have to stop building and push it into the water.
That’s the moment that matters.
Not the blueprint. Not the theory. The launch.
And after more than 40 years of doing this, that boat of mine has seen some weather. It’s creaked, it’s drifted, it’s taken on a little water now and then. But it hasn’t sunk. Not once.
Instead, it’s taken me places.
To sunsets on the beach after a day of drawing portraits, the sky melting into colors no camera ever quite gets right. To gallery openings where strangers become friends over a shared moment in front of a piece of art. To conventions and fairs where the rhythm of people walking by becomes its own kind of music, and somewhere in that rhythm, someone stops, looks, and connects.
That’s why I keep sailing.
Mom’s got the transportation covered, driving me there Friday and bringing me home Sunday. Whiskey Kitty will be holding down the fort with her, probably running the household like a tiny tuxedo general. From what I can tell, they’re both excited about their weekend together. I suspect I’ll be the one being missed just a little more quietly.
And as for the smoking…
Not happening.
I’m stocked up on the gum, armed and ready like a man going into battle with minty reinforcements. The cravings might show up, sure. They always do. But so does the choice. And this weekend, the choice is clear.
Show up. Stay sharp. Stay present.
The tide is coming in, the boat is ready, and the harbor is about to get crowded.
Once again… I still got this. 🚤✨
by Dan and Bonkers
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