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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...

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....

Somewhere along the line, the roles have shifted. I used to think I was the caretaker, the provider, the architect of Whiskey Kitty’s small but comfortable kingdom. Food arrives on schedule, doors open and close with purpose, and her environment is carefully curated like a fine art exhibit titled “The Indoor Cat: A Study in Safety and Snacks.” But lately… I’m starting to feel like the prison guard in a very fluffy, very opinionated correctional facility. And Whiskey? She’s filed a formal protest. It begins with the carrying. There was a time not long ago when I could scoop her...

The house has turned into a slow-cooking oven, the kind where even the walls seem to sigh, and somewhere within this warm little universe… Whiskey Kitty has vanished. Not gone, not escaped, not plotting a hostile takeover of the neighborhood squirrel population… just missing in action. Until, of course, I find her. Under the bed. Compressed like a furry accordion. Eyes half open, body tucked in, looking like she’s trying to become one with the shadows. Now the question that creeps in, like a detective in a wrinkled trench coat: Is she hiding from the heat… or from me? Let’s...

The calendar has circled me back to that electric little pocket of reality where costumes roam free, stories walk upright, and artists like me set up shop somewhere between dream and hustle. WonderCon 2026 is here again, March 27–29 at the Anaheim Convention Center, and I can feel it in my bones like a drum roll before the curtain lifts. 🎭 I’ll admit it… there’s a flicker of nerves. Not the kind that paralyze, but the kind that whisper, “This matters.” I’ve done this three years running, set up the table, stacked the books, smiled through conversations with strangers who...