News

Today, something shifted. Not dramatically, not like lightning striking the Anaheim Convention Center and turning my booth into a cathedral of commerce. No, it was quieter than that. Smoother. Like a gear finally catching after grinding for miles. Today I made record-breaking, personal best sales at WonderCon. And the strange part? It didn’t feel like chasing sales. It felt like working. Real work. The kind where time bends, conversations flow, and before you know it, your table isn’t just a table anymore. It’s a small theater. And I’m not performing… I’m connecting. Even more surprising, I hardly thought about having...

Today was the first day of WonderCon 2026, and if I’m being honest, it started like a foggy painting that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. I woke up heavy. Not physically, but mentally, like someone had draped a wet blanket over my thoughts. Depression has a way of doing that. It whispers, “Stay in bed. Skip it. No one will notice.” And for a moment, I almost listened. I almost let the whole thing drift away before it even began. But Mom… she wasn’t having it. She made sure I got up, got moving, got out the...

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...