Creative Spring Soup
This spring has unfolded as a rich season of book festivals and launches—days brimming with conversations, handshakes, shared stories, and that unmistakable creative energy that only gathers when readers and writers meet face to face.
On March 28th, at the San Diego Writers Festival in Coronado, I shared a booth with Lianne and Joseph Downey of Jolibro Publishing. Despite some early miscommunications between the organizers and the tent company, everything came together by 10 a.m., and soon more than thirty vendors filled the space with books, ideas, and enthusiasm. Tosh arrived from British Columbia the day before and spent the day helping sell books and gather emails from curious and engaged festival goers.
In the afternoon, Lianne and I slipped away to hear Jodi Picoult speak in the main auditorium. Every seat was filled. Every heart, it seemed, was stirred by her passionate call to stand for truth—not only in our writing, but in our actions and our lives, every day.
Immense gratitude to Marni Freeman, Tracy Jones, and the many others who have nurtured this festival over the past nine years, growing it into such a vital and sustaining resource for the writing community.
A few weeks later, on April 18th, I drove up to the University of Southern California for the LA Times Festival of Books. Now in its third decade, the festival draws roughly 160,000 visitors each year and brings together every corner of the media world—publication, production, sales, networking, panels, lectures, and interviews all unfolding at once. I shared a table in the Acorn Publishing tent, positioned directly across from the main stage.
While the location was central and highly visible, many passersby were irresistibly drawn to the celebrities onstage rather than to quiet conversations about books. Still, the connections we made with those who did stop felt meaningful, and we even sold a few copies along the way.
As the crowds thickened and even walking became a slow negotiation, I finished my shift and headed toward the parking garage. The temperature hovered near eighty, and the sun was relentless. I found a popsicle vendor in the children’s area, a small unexpected gift of the day, and then claimed an empty Adirondack chair tucked into the shade. Within minutes of peeling back the sticky wrapper and biting into the icy treat, I cooled off, refreshed after an intense morning of more social interaction than I get in a month.
Looking up, after catching some drips from the melting popsicle, I noticed I was seated across from a violin maker’s tent. Cellos, violas, violins—even tiny instruments for children—stood upright in careful rows, their warm reddish wood and elegant curves all works of art. Families drifted in and out, instruments were lifted and tested, and measurements were taken. Despite the surrounding noise, I caught fragments of musicians attempting difficult passages—brief, beautiful threads of sound weaving through the chaos. Moments of mini private concerts, offered just for me.
