Today was the last day of WonderCon 2026, and like the final scene of a good play, it didn’t end with fireworks… it ended with something better—meaning.
I made $600 total for the weekend.
Now, to some people, that might sound like a number you shrug at. But to me, it’s a signal flare in the fog. It means I showed up. It means the work connected. It means someone stopped, looked, listened, and said, “Yeah… I’ll take that piece of your world home with me.”
And that’s the real currency out here.
This isn’t just about selling books or art. It’s about building a bridge between my experience and someone else’s. Every conversation about mental health, every shared story, every laugh over a strange or surreal idea—it all adds up. Not just dollars. Momentum.
There’s something electric about being face-to-face with your audience. No algorithms. No scrolling. Just human to human. You can feel what lands. You can see what resonates. You learn more in three days at a convention than you do in three months behind a screen.
Now, not everything went perfectly.
I lost over $100 in sales because I couldn’t take credit cards.
That one stings a little. It’s like watching someone reach for your hand and you’ve got a glove on made of bad technology. But that’s not a defeat—it’s a note scribbled in the margin: Fix this before the next show. And I will.
Because next up is the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books on April 18 and 19 at University of Southern California campus.
Now that one… that one feels big.
I’m expecting a strong turnout. Bigger crowd, broader audience, more eyes, more conversations. I’ve already got a hotel lined up for two nights nearby, and honestly, that part feels like a strange little luxury. Not a vacation from work—but a vacation from the grind. A temporary shift in gravity. Same mission, different atmosphere.
Mom came through strong this weekend—helping me get the books there and back, navigating the chaos, making sure I landed where I needed to be. That kind of support doesn’t show up on a balance sheet, but it’s priceless.
And then there’s Whiskey Kitty.
My tuxedo supervisor. My tiny emotional anchor.
Before every day started and every night ended, she was there—purring, pacing, reminding me that no matter how big or small the day felt, I had something real waiting at home. That kind of grounding… you can’t manufacture it.
Between art therapy, pet therapy, and the simple discipline of showing up and doing constructive business, I’m still smoke-free.
Chewing the gum. Staying steady.
There’s a rhythm forming now. Not perfect. Not polished. But real.
And maybe that’s the whole point of this journey—not perfection, not overnight success, but consistency. Showing up. Learning. Adjusting. Growing. One show at a time. One conversation at a time. One decision at a time.
So yeah… $600.
But also clarity. Direction. Proof of concept.
And a quiet, stubborn voice in the background saying:
Keep going.
Once again…
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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