The Magic of Craft Shows: A Day in My Life as a Fiber Artist

There’s something about the hum of a craft show morning that fills me with both excitement and nerves. The sky is still dark when my phone alarm goes off. Even though I didn’t sleep much, too much anticipation swirling in my head, I’m already wide awake. My mind is racing with last-minute thoughts: Do I have enough change? Did I pack that new batch of yarn? Will today be busy?

Coffee isn’t part of my morning, but mascara and a little blush definitely are. Even after a restless night, I want to feel put-together—it’s part of stepping into my role, ready to greet the day and every curious customer who stops by. A quick glance in the mirror, hair done, makeup set, and I’m ready to go.

Then the real work begins: the set up. 

My bins of yarn, display racks, my signs, bags, and the little touches that make my booth feel like “me.” My car is packed to the brim, and it’s always a bit of a puzzle unloading and setting everything up. There’s a special kind of quiet in those early hours, vendors moving about with purpose, a friendly nod here and there. We’re all in it together.

I’m lucky today, my booth is set up near vendors I’ve come to recently know. What started as small talk is slowly turning into friendships, people I look forward to seeing, swapping stories and helping each other out. These connections are one of the reasons I love coming back.

With just two hours before the doors open, everything starts to come together. The skeins are arranged, soft rainbows spilling across my table. My signage is up, and I take a step back, trying to see it through a shopper’s eyes. It’s not perfect, never is, but it’s mine. And soon, the quiet hum will turn into the lively buzz of shoppers, and the real magic will begin.

With everything in place, there’s nothing left to do but wait. The doors open, and the first few shoppers trickle in, bags in hand, eyes scanning the booths. I sit behind my table, smiling, trying not to fidget. There’s always that little flutter of “Will they come?” that never quite goes away.

And they do come, slowly at first.

Some stop and admire my yarn, fingers lightly grazing the skeins, eyes lingering for a moment. “So pretty,” one says, “but out of my budget today.” Another frowns slightly when I mention that I work with wool, not cotton, and moves on without another word. A few pass by silently, just a murmur or a nod as they touch and go. And that's okay.

I’ve learned over time that I’m not for everyone, and that’s something I’m more than okay with. I’m not trying to be. I’m here for my people, the die-hard yarn lovers who know the thrill of discovering a skein dyed by hand, with care, with love. The ones who understand that this isn’t just about yarn, it’s about passion, about craft, about something real in a world of big box stores and mass production.

I think about Michaels, about Jo-Ann’s, and how places like that shaped the early days of many crafters. Including me. But this? This is something different. This is personal. This is standing in front of the person who made the yarn, hearing the story behind the colorways, knowing that what you’re holding didn’t come off a conveyor belt, it came from someone’s heart. This is love.

And when my people arrive, I feel it. Their eyes light up, their hands dive into the yarn with purpose. They ask about fiber content, about the dye process, about the inspiration behind that deep forest green or that vibrant coral. They share their own stories. Projects they’ve finished, ideas they’re dreaming up. These are the moments I wait for, the connections that make it all worth it.

Between customers, there’s always time to chat with the vendors nearby. We laugh about the slow spells, swap tips on display setups, and share stories from past shows. It’s a little world of creators, each of us hustling in our own way, but never alone.

I look around and feel that sense of belonging. We get it, the early mornings, the late nights, the love poured into every piece we bring. It’s more than business. It’s art. It’s heart.

The end of the day always feels impossibly far away when the morning begins, but somehow, in the blink of an eye, it’s here. The crowds thin, a few last-minute browsers linger, and then, just like that, it’s over. The energy shifts. The buzz fades into the sound of vendors packing up, breaking down the little worlds we built just hours ago.

Tearing down always takes longer than I want it to. The displays that went up so carefully now need to fit back into boxes, into bins, into my car. Which, of course, never seems to pack quite the way it did the night before. There’s always a moment of mild frustration, rearranging and reshuffling, but eventually, it all fits. Somehow, it always does.

This show? Sales weren’t amazing. But they were enough. Enough to keep the little spark alive, enough to keep me chasing this dream. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a little delusional, thinking this small thing can grow into something bigger. But then I remember, it’s not just about selling yarn. It’s about the people.

The fellow sellers who’ve become friends. The customers who tag me in their beautiful, handmade creations, showing me what my yarn has become in their hands. That’s one of my favorite parts, really. Seeing the life that continues long after a skein leaves my booth. Every time, I want to keep them all, every single skein, to make something myself. But if I did that, I’d never have time to dye again, and that’s the real love.

Craft shows are a strange mix of joy and exhaustion. They’re draining, time-consuming, full of highs and lows. But they’re also one of my favorite ways to spend a Saturday, or a whole weekend, really. It’s a little chaotic, sometimes happy, sometimes frustrating, but always worth it. I’m grateful for every show, every person I meet, every piece of this journey.

And when the car is finally packed, and I’m driving home in the quiet, I know I’ll do it all over again.