This weekend, the curtain rises again on one of my yearly proving grounds: WonderCon 2026. Three years running prior, like a trilogy that refuses to fade to black. Financially, it’s been a break-even dance… but artistically? It’s a spotlight, a megaphone, a ripple in the pond that keeps echoing long after the convention floor empties.
Because here’s the truth about events like this: sometimes the real currency isn’t cash… it’s attention. It’s the person who sees your book today and buys it online next week. It’s the gallery owner who wanders past your booth pretending not to look too interested. It’s the quiet observer who becomes a loud supporter later. WonderCon is less like a sale and more like planting flags in the creative universe.
This year, I’m flying solo at the booth.
There’s something heroic about that. Also something slightly insane.
No tag team. No booth buddy. Just me, my work, and a table that becomes a tiny republic of imagination for three days straight. I’ll admit, it would be nice to have someone there to share the rhythm of it all, to trade off when the crowd surges or when energy dips into the afternoon haze. But there’s also a certain purity to doing it alone. Every conversation, every sale, every moment… direct. Unfiltered. Mine.
Mom, of course, is my pit crew, my logistics commander. She’s handling the transportation, helping me load in, making sure the cargo of creativity actually makes it to the battlefield. Thursday is early loading, which means decisions must be made.
And decisions, when you’re an artist with too many good ideas, can feel like choosing which children get to go on vacation.
I’ve got boxes. Plural. Possibly an army of boxes. Not all of them will make the cut.
So now comes the strategy phase:
What sells?
What attracts?
What stops someone mid-walk like they just saw a unicorn holding a paperback?
Because space at a booth is like oxygen. Limited. Precious. You don’t bring everything… you bring the right things.
Meanwhile, back at home headquarters, Whiskey Kitty remains blissfully unaware of the logistical storm brewing.
She has her own schedule. Her own priorities. Her own tiny, tuxedoed universe.
She slips into bed like a soft shadow, delivers a ceremonial ear-lick like she’s blessing the day, then immediately transitions into food supervisor. Once I’m awake, she turns into a streak of black-and-white lightning, darting through rooms, initiating games of peekaboo, hide-and-seek, and the classic feline sport: “Catch Me If You Can!"
And maybe, just maybe, she’s training me.
Because that energy? That unpredictable, playful, relentless motion? That’s exactly what WonderCon demands. You don’t sit still at a convention. You engage. You pivot. You perform. You become part artist, part storyteller, part ringmaster of your own creative circus.
This year, there’s another layer to the challenge.
Smoke-free.
No stepping away. No disappearing acts outside. No time lost to old habits. Just me, planted at the booth, fully present. More conversations. More connections. More opportunities.
More oxygen in every sense of the word.
It’s a subtle shift, but a powerful one. Time is currency at these events, and this year I’m investing all of it right there behind the table.
So here it is. The plan, the hope, the quiet declaration:
Show up.
Stay present.
Sell what I can.
Learn what I must.
And let the rest unfold like a sketch turning into a painting.
The boxes will get sorted. The booth will get built. The crowds will come and go like tides.
And me?
I’ll be right there in the middle of it, holding the line, telling the story, living the moment.
Once again… I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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