November 12, 2025 - Both of the times I met my favorite author changed the trajectory of my life.

For the longest time, I didn’t pick up books. My time in my teen years and into my adolescence were spent occupying other hobbies. But I always loved the idea of fantasy, from dragons to wizards to elves, you name it. I played countless games and watched various movies with fantastical elements, but never thought something so magical would be found between the pages of a book. And after I read my first book, it turned into the whole series, and then from there, my hobby of reading practically flew off into the wind and took me with it.

When I remember the first time I met her, I recall feeling like I had never been in a room full of more people who like books who were probably feeling the same nerves I was.

Alex Aster, my favorite author who created the Lightlark series, was on tour. Lightlark, at the time that I found it, was unlike anything I had ever read before. It was told in the third person, which was new for me as a reader, and followed the main character, Isla Crown, as she explored the different kingdoms and met the rulers for the “first time” in her life. A series so enchanting that my attention was captivated right away. I felt like I couldn’t put the book down, and by the time that I did, I was picking up the second one with itching hands, the plot of the story still so fresh in my mind, having found my favorite characters, unaware that this world and its creator would change me for the better.

My boyfriend, Josh, and I stood together in the winding line of people, all here for the same reason. We arrived at Rosemont College, which is outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for the first day of her book tour. Josh, being a great boyfriend and my number one supporter, entertaining my interests always without questions, drove us to our destination, and even let me read the final few chapters of her newest book, Skyshade, with my flashlight on in the dark car. 

With my nose still buried in my book, he had said to me, “You’re going to finish that book before you even meet her, and it only came out yesterday.”

“She’s my favorite author,” I had told him, making sure I knew what line I stopped reading on before I looked over at him. “I want to make sure I finish it before I meet her.”

“By all means,” he started, driving us further into the November night. “Keep reading.”

The anticipation ate at me as I watched the line of people move, fixing the crown on top of my head, smoothing the cape across my shoulders and back. I was even dressed up for this event, adorning my body in clothes and costume pieces to represent my favorite character from the series, Grimshaw Malvere, the ruler of the Nightshade kingdom.

As the suspenseful minutes went by, my nerves were set alight, and the books in my hands were heavy. I remember giving Josh an anxious smile as the girl in front of me went to the table and started talking to Alex, to which I received a supportive thumbs up. I knew I only had a few minutes to talk to her, so I had to make the time count.

And as I finally stepped up to the table, with my worries in my stomach, Alex Aster and the content creator sitting next to her smiled up at me. We talked about her books, my costume, the fact that we both had crown rings on fingers on our hands, and my name, which I had recently just changed from Abbi to Gail. She told me that she almost used my name in the book to represent “wind,” and that simple sentence became something I would never forget.

I’ll also never forget how she once said, “write the books you want to read.” I had started writing a few months prior to this. I never expected to find something in writing books, alike to the ones I was reading. My own characters, plot lines, and even series began to bloom in my head, and I didn’t know what to do with them. Josh had told me that there was no harm in writing them down, so that’s what I began to do in August, right before my final semester of college began, right as I started to question who the hell I was, and what I wanted out of this life.

But mere ideas turned into scenes, and I kept writing, finally finding a sense of purpose and calm as my education was the hardest it had ever been. I had finally found something to keep me busy, a hobby that I could be passionate about while I tried to find my place in the world, desperately trying to discover an identity that I was realizing I knew less than these fictional characters, these people that weren’t real, that knew their sense of self because I knew it.

No one wants to tell you how hard it is to complete your degree, especially when you don’t know what is coming next for you. As I reflect now, I realize that perhaps that’s because only you have to be the master of your own life, and someone can’t write your story for you. But I remember the crushing feeling, the weight of the pressure of knowing what to do afterward, to grow up and figure it out. I was supposed to already have it figured out. But I didn’t. And writing, as great as it was for me, had blossomed its way into my heart, and almost made me more confused than I already was, about who I was and who I wanted to be. 

Writing made me feel alive, and fulfilled. And knowing that, made me so scared I hadn’t found it sooner than I did. Reading, Alex, and her series of literature became that calm in the storm. Writing, and books, had introduced me to a world I had never known existed beforehand, and even led me to a community I was happy to finally be a part of, introducing me to some of my closest friends. 

It was the most bittersweet flavor I have ever tasted. And words, no matter how good I think I am at writing them, will never be able to express the weight of the emotion of knowing what you want after not being able to find it for so long, feeling as though you are way too late.

When I met Alex Aster the second time, I was even more lost than I was during the first. 

I had finally completed my degree in the months leading up to this, and was knee-deep in job searching, which ended me up with a lot of completed applications with no responses back, desperation finding me again as I grasped at any career building opportunity I could apply for, even if I wasn’t truly interested in them. All while I was still writing.

Della, one of my best friends I found through our shared interest in books, Delle-Belle as I often call her, joined me on my pilgrimage to New York City to meet Alex again. Della and I met through our jobs at Starbucks, and were basically inseparable when she came back from her leave after her husband, Jo, passed away. Both of us needed someone to lean on, someone to just listen and understand, and as cheesy as it is to say we found one another when we needed to, we really did. And months from then, months from now, as I’m writing this, we’ll continue to lean on one another for that kind of support you can only get from your closest friend.

We stood in line together, the tight cluster of people woven through the aisles of the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, like fabric that keeps clothes together. It was my second time at this store, second time meeting my favorite author. Ironically, the first time I was here was on my twenty-third birthday, and I was here to get another signed copy of Alex’s books, my first autographed one, that felt like a trophy to me.

The memory of the second time I met her, when I think back on it over half a year later, holds the same excitement that any birthday would. But when that exhilarating feeling leaves, like the glow of the adrenaline after a music concert, something heavier takes its place.

Della looked down at her books, at the multiple editions we spent the entire morning running around for, and then up at me. “You look nervous.”

“I am nervous,” I told her, counting my own editions in my hands, making sure one hasn’t teleported since I had pulled them out of my bag. The same as the first time I met Alex, there was only one person in front of Della in line, and our chance to get our books signed was so close I felt like I could feel it in my toes. “Last time I met her, I couldn’t stop shaking.”

I hadn’t necessarily lied to my friend; I was nervous. But it was way more than just because I was about to talk to Alex again. I was in this big city of dreams, where anything is possible, feeling miniscule compared to the tall buildings and large crowds. I felt like I was just a person, lost in a concrete jungle, unsure of what they really wanted to do with their life, and wondering, and regretting, if the education I had just completed was worth it. It didn’t feel like it was, and knowing that, remembering that feeling, still makes my stomach hurt.

I was supposed to be enjoying this moment, that would forever be a memory I will never forget, but I found myself worrying about what I couldn’t change instead. That bittersweet emotion resurfaced, and it made me nauseous. And I didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t know who to talk about it to. I didn’t know if I sounded justified in my worries at all, craving a life, a career and a legacy, that at the time felt like the impossible.

Della gave me a reassuring smile, an act of comfort similar to the one Josh had gifted me in this scenario before, right as she left me alone on the stairs of the stage. And for a moment, the emotions I had didn’t seem to be filling my lungs with water that wasn’t even present, the words I didn’t say to her, but would the next day. “Just be yourself, Gail. Make sure you don’t forget to give her that necklace you made. I’ll take a video for you. Don’t worry.”

Those last two words lodged a lump in my throat. I remember thinking about, again, how much had changed for me since I picked up my first book, since I picked up one of Alex’s books, the author who I was there to meet that remembered me on the street that very morning. Since I made my first document, since I typed my first words of a story I couldn’t stop seeing in my head, since I made characters and plot lines that were… Well, mine. 

I was finding myself writing more than I was reading at this point, which is still true to this very day. Lost in my head, in a world that I fabricated out of thin air, finding comfort in my own literature, like it were lines of scripture I found a sense of believing in. Writing had become everything to me, and even as I walked around aimlessly on the path of life, it still felt like home.

Realization slapped me in the face as I stepped up to the table to meet Alex again. I had always thought I knew who I was, but I never realized that I didn’t know who I wanted to be. I knew my qualities, interests, and beliefs like the back of my hand, but didn’t know my goals, dreams, and wants. That there is no time frame for life, no set in stone clock that tells you when you’re going to know who you are, that sense of identity we spend our early years searching for. And that I could find it whenever I happened about a fate that I wanted to be mine.

Months later, I sent out my application to RACC for the Creative Writing program, filled with the overwhelming support from my family and friends, pushing every day to a dream I know I can obtain. Every step I took in my journey of self exploration led me there, here, and into the future, the one that no longer is as frightening as it was before. My pen name, Abigail Martha, identities who I was and who I can become, my fight for my dreams, and the bright future I know is ahead of me, because I’m too stubborn, and hard-working, for it not to be.

One day, when I’m asked about my own books, what inspires me to be an author, I’ll know what to say. Because now, I know who I am. And my identity, my sense of self, my destiny forged between the pages of my book of life, will never leave me.