So today was the first real drumbeat of WonderCon 2026—the kind you feel not in your ears, but in your arms, your back, your legs… especially your arms. Because today was load-in day. And those boxes? They weren’t just boxes. They were bricks of ambition, paper-packed dreams, and about ftwenty titles’ worth of “please don’t drop this on your foot.”
We pulled up, Mom at the wheel like a seasoned road manager, and began the great migration from trunk to table. One box at a time, step by step, like a slow parade of stories heading toward their audience. Somewhere between box number “Why did I bring this many?” and “I think this one has the heavier books,” a small miracle appeared.
A man—no cape, no fanfare, just good timing—stepped in and helped me unload. He also helped set up the sign that says, Have You Taken Your Meds? That gets me a lot of sales.
No questions. No hesitation. Just action.
His wife, meanwhile, was busy setting up her own booth and clearly had no interest in him becoming decorative clutter in her workspace. So there he was, drafted into my production crew for a few minutes. And just like that, Tennessee Williams echoed in my head like a line delivered on cue in a theater of folding tables and banner stands:
“I’ve always relied upon the kindness of strangers.” — Tennessee Williams
And it’s true. At conventions, kindness isn’t rare—it’s currency. You trade in it. You survive on it. You build your weekend on it. I gave him a free books for helping me out.
Because no matter how much you prepare, how many checklists you write, how many times you’ve done this before… you still need people.
Before the heavy lifting, Mom made sure the day didn’t become just a checklist with legs. She insisted we pause the hustle and step into something softer. Time with my brother and his wife.
And I’ll say it straight—she’s my favorite sister-in-law. She asks about me. She sees me. That matters more than people think.
We went to a park—one of those quiet, almost painted places—with a small lake that looked like it had been brushed in with calm itself. Ducks and geese drifted across the water like they had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.
It was peaceful. The kind of peaceful that doesn’t ask anything from you.
But I’ll be honest—I was still in task mode. My mind was pacing even while my body was standing still. Running lists, checking time, making sure everything lined up just right. Mom noticed. She gently suggested I might have rushed them a bit.
She’s probably right.
I’m learning that even good days can be rushed if you’re always leaning toward the next moment instead of standing inside the one you’re in.
Still… it was a good day.
A full day.
A day with boxes, strangers, family, ducks, and just enough reflection to realize that memories don’t need perfection—they just need presence.
And then there’s the quiet victory tucked inside all of this…
Day 10.
Ten days without smoking.
The gum is doing its job, keeping the edge off while I keep the promise. It’s not glamorous. It’s not cinematic. It’s just consistent. And right now, consistency is my hero.
I didn’t see Whiskey Kitty much today. She was off doing whatever mysterious, feline side-quest she had assigned herself. But now I’m home, and I’ll spend some time with her—present, clear-headed, and not carrying that old cloud of smoke around me.
She deserves that version of me.
Truth is, I do too.
So today, I carried boxes. I accepted help. I rushed a little. I remembered a little. I didn’t smoke. I showed up.
And somewhere between all of that, the weekend ahead started to feel real.
Once again…
I got this. 🐈📦✨
by Dan and Bonkers
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