Book Festivals Keep Stories Alive

There’s a special kind of anticipation that comes with unpacking your books at a festival—the careful lining up of titles, arranging of bookmarks and bookplates, and straightening of acrylic stands until everything feels just right. As I set up my table at the Adoptee Authors Booth at the prestigious Tucson Festival of Books, I felt that familiar mix of nerves and excitement. These books represented years of work where I put my heart on the page, and here I was placing them on a table for thousands of strangers to encounter.

Once the crowds began filtering by, the booth came alive. Readers paused, scanned the covers, and looked up with curiosity. I’d smile and ask the question that opens nearly every conversation I have at events like this: “What is your connection to adoption?” It’s a simple invitation, but it always leads somewhere meaningful—sometimes tender, sometimes surprising, always deeply human.

This year marked the third annual Adoptee Author Booth, brilliantly organized by Diane Shifflett of Rainy Day Freelance. Tucson is one of the largest literary festivals in the country, drawing more than 100,000 attendees and hundreds of authors, so having a dedicated space for adoptee voices is significant. It gives our stories a clear presence in the larger literary landscape.

Adoptee authors are often scattered across states, genres, and life experiences, so gathering in one place is a rare gift. Standing alongside the writers whose work has shaped adoption discourse—Ken DeStefano, Ann Fessler, Dr. Abby Hasberry, Diana Kayla Hochberg, Ariel Rathbun, Emma Stevens, Jesse Scott, Diane Wheaton, and Jean Kelly Widner—was grounding and energizing. Their books have guided countless readers through the complexities of adoption, identity, and belonging. Seeing our titles arranged together created a collective presence none of us could have achieved alone. Some visitors arrived with personal stories ready to spill out; others were just beginning to explore adoption literature. All found a welcoming space.

This year’s festival also brought new rituals that deepened our sense of connection. On Friday, we gathered for an adoptee author meet-and-greet at the R Bar on Congress, where each of us introduced ourselves and read from our work—a moving reminder of the range and depth of adoptee voices. Saturday morning’s group photo, taken before the festival gates opened, captured our shared anticipation. And on Sunday, March 15, we closed the weekend with a special screening of Ann Fessler’s documentary A Girl Like Her, which sparked thoughtful conversations about shame, birth mothers, family, and belonging. These touchpoints bookended the weekend with meaning and camaraderie.

(pictured here from left to right: Diane Wheaton, Ariel Rathbun, myself, Jean Kelly Widner, and Jane Ness)

Festivals like Tucson aren’t only about selling books. They’re essential to a writer’s creative and professional life. With tens of thousands of readers in one place, your work reaches people who might never discover it otherwise. Being part of a major festival affirms that your story belongs within the broader literary conversation. And the connections—with readers, librarians, booksellers, and fellow authors—often lead to opportunities long after the booths come down. Face-to-face conversations also bring an energy digital promotion can’t match. When someone picks up a book and says, “Tell me what this is about,” and then, “Your story reflects mine,” it renews the purpose behind the writing.

After my three-hour stint in the Indie Author Pavilion, where independently published writers showcased their fiction and nonfiction, I boxed up the last few books and walked toward the parking lot. In my head, I replayed the conversations I’d had over the weekend. I reflected on how stories—our own and those entrusted to us—have a way of slipping into someone else’s life and subtly shifting how they see their own. And that’s exactly why authors show up at book festivals and literary events. That’s why we write. Because a single story shared with honesty can change a heart, offer a new viewpoint, or make someone feel less alone.