I went to the Boston Book Festival over the weekend, and I’m so glad I did. I got some free and inexpensive books, and I enjoyed the cool autumn air and a walk around Copley Square with a friend. Most importantly, though, my writing aspirations were placed before me in a very real, very tangible way.

This is all important to acknowledge because I almost didn’t go. Lately, writing has been an old friend I’ve lost touch with, and I knew—I thought—that going would upset me. I was convinced it’d remind me of how little progress I’ve made in the past month, and that nasally, middle-school-bully voice of self doubt would make its comeback: “You’ll never be an author.”

That didn’t happen, though—or, at least, not in the same way. Instead of a nail in the coffin of my would-be writing career, the experience served as a challenge: “You’ll never be an author if…”

If you let life get in the way. 

If you don’t make writing a priority.

If you don’t write.

And, of course, all of these statements are true. A writer who doesn’t write? Preposterous!

The tricky part of all this is turning reflection into action, but one of the great things about the Boston Book Festival is that it’s an annual event. As I move forward, looking to next year’s festival as a deadline can give me a time frame for turning things around.

I’m glad I went.

(Seeing Becky Albertalli and Adam Silvera was pretty great, too.)