The Backpack of Endless Travel

Or ‘The Metaphor I Carry’

If you click this image, you can go places with me and my backpack.

WATCH: Inside My Backpack: Essentials for Conferences, Coffee, and Creative Inspiration

A three-hour flight, a half-hour wait at the luggage carousel, and a blissfully quiet Uber ride, and the lights of the Strip suddenly washed over me. The streets were crowded, as expected. Sidewalks filled with tourists. Even the locals here tend to be tourists. “I moved here from Indiana three years ago,” a waiter told me. “I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.”

Maybe the born and raised have fealty to this town, but the locals I know well tend to avoid the Strip. They know a Vegas that most of us never see. An art scene, coffee shops, the place where they buy their groceries and the other place where they buy new underwear.

It’s hard to imagine a side of Vegas without all the lights and noise and shows. Like seeing a movie star with no makeup. Somehow prettier, for being wholesome.

My opinions. Don’t let them sway you. But I don’t really like Vegas. Not the Vegas I’ve seen for the past few years. It’s not my town, not my vibe, not my scene. Too much money goes out, for too little return. I’m a man who thrives on experience. Craves it like coffee in the morning. And you can certainly have a lot of experience here. But it’s empty calories. I like a good meal, well-prepared, made with cultivated care. This place is cultivated, but it’s all flowing inward—feed the Vegas. The Vegas does not feed you in return.

Not like, say, Austin. And I know, I’m biased. But having lived in Austin now for around five years, I’ve noticed roots. I’ve noticed a blending of heritage, and a welcome. I’ve noticed nourishment—being local here means being part of something. Keep Austin weird, for sure. But only because you get back as much as you give.

I didn’t mean for this to become a side-by-side comparison, or a disparagement of Vegas. Last night, as I walked with friends to a restaurant nearby, I remarked that Vegas is a place that just confuses me. In that way that your sense of up and down can get confused when gravity is negated, or your sense of direction can get scrambled just stepping out of an elevator. Was I supposed to turn left, or right? Which way is the lobby? Where did this swimming pool come from?

I’m here in Vegas for an author conference—Author Nation 2025. It’s a conference that I’ve attended for years, though it was rebranded to the Author Nation name only a couple of years ago. It’s always been in Vegas, though. It’s moved venues, it’s changed hands, but it’s always been a place where my own unique community could congregate.

In the desert that is Vegas, this conference is an oasis. I am nurtured here.

All of that’s good. All of that’s fine. All of that’s interesting. But I want to talk about my backpack.

I hadn’t noticed before, but I take a lot of photos of my backpack. It’s a good prop, when I’m traveling. It’s always with me—at home or abroad. It’s a good quality pack. Good color. Good material. Durable, flexible. It’s small enough that I can tuck it under the seat in front of me when I fly but has enough capacity that I can get by for a week on its contents alone, should I choose. And I often do choose.

What I realized was that the bag is kind of a stand-in for me, in these photos.

I can prop it up in a nice chair in my hotel room, lean it against a tree in a wooded park, place it in its own chair across from me at a coffee shop. And I take a photo. And I’m taking a photo of me.

Not literally, obviously. But figuratively. Metaphorically.

In that pack I have all the sorts of things that I consider essential to Kevin. I keep journals in there—my daily drivers and my spares. I have a little pouch with bits and bobs and tools in it, like a screwdriver set and some toothpicks and a folded wad of cash for just-in-case.

There are little pouches that have useful items, like all the cables and battery packs and chargers I could possibly need to keep my little forest of electronics alive and functional while I’m out living and functioning. One pouch has wet wipes and a detergent pen, and a little pouch with a spoon and a spork in it. Business cards and nail clippers. I’m considering putting instant coffee packets in there. I’m surprised I haven’t already.

Not everything in that bag is rational, but then neither am I, at times. I can’t say that I end up using literally everything in there, but it’s a great comfort knowing it’s there. That the capabilities are there. I’m prepared.

So, I think that’s why my backpack makes such a good subject for photos. And why I have so many photos of it. Selfies don’t always do these spaces justice, and I always forget to bring a tripod so I could set a scene with me as the subject. So, the stand-in is a good option. Maybe even better. It tells a story without me mucking it up by being in the way.

Anyway, I’m here all week, folks. Actually, when this goes live, I’ll be on my last day here, flying back the next day. Those are weird, hollow, sad-but-gratifying days, when the conference is done and the aftermath is being cleared. But I bet I’m enjoying it. The quiet. The somber goodbyes. I bet I can get some great shots of the pack.

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A NOTE AT THE END

I have a weird relationship with these author conferences. I’ll confess, I spend a lot of time dreading them. I usually know up to a year out when I’m going to be at one, and what’s going to be required of me. So I spend a year fretting and worrying and wondering how I’m going to possibly put everything on pause for a couple of weeks while I sprint off the Vegas or Orlando or Denver or London. I worry over the cost of things. I stress over the balls that get dropped when you have full days of travel. I get anxious over the idea of lost luggage—though, frankly, as Kara and I continue downsizing what we own, I’m becoming less attached to things. It’s very freeing.

But Kara has pointed out to me (and I mean, she sent me a text message as I was writing this post) that these conferences always end up giving me a boost. They’re a chance to connect with and, often, serve my community. I meet people from the industry and establish relationships. I get recharged on the Why behind all of what I do.

I wouldn’t call it a love/hate relationship. It’s just... complicated.

Like life. Or so I hear.