The first time I visited the Decatur Book Festival, the MARTA train headed south from the suburbs was packed with wizards, college football fans and cardboard-clad robots. As my fellow commuters disembarked for their Labor Day weekend activities, I felt self-conscious without a fantastical costume or home team colors. I transferred to the eastbound train, keen to stay lost in the crowd. Only a year removed from college, I was still finding my way in a big city, trying to reconnect with a childhood love for writing while working a fast-paced engineering job. Once I reached Decatur Square, I grabbed a program and planned out which events to attend, choosing from an incredible variety of genres and unfamiliar authors. Along the shaded streets, winding through the colorful tents overflowing with books, I discovered an eclectic, welcoming haven. From the penny-lined floors of Little Shop of Stories to the marble halls of the historic DeKalb Courthouse, time slowed down and my self-absorption melted away. Hearing authors speak with joy about their craft reminded me of the long hours I spent as a kid writing books for my parents. In a City Hall conference room, I heard Dustin Parsons interviewed about his visually-engaging and poignant book, Exploded View: Essays on Fatherhood, with Diagrams, which expanded my expectation about what literature could be. I left with an autographed copy of Parsons’s book, along with pages of notes from author panels and a rejuvenated willingness to let my own creative voice emerge again. In the near decade since my first visit, I’ve moved further and further south, until now the festival is only one train stop away. It has become a transportive yet grounding touchstone in my life, shaping me as a reader, writer, and neighbor. Last year, I finally donned my own costume, a bright yellow shirt with “volunteer” emblazoned between my shoulder blades. I chose a venue assignment where I could attend a presentation by poet Natasha Trethewey, whose searching, tragic memoir Memorial Drive resonated deeply with me, sharing its name with the street bordering my neighborhood. During her interview, she spoke of the formative power of her parents’ mixed-race marriage, her grandmother’s home in Mississippi and the East Atlanta neighborhood where she attended high school. Afterward, I waited for the auditorium to empty, then stood in line with a purchased copy of Trethewey’s latest book, unashamed in my pale yellow shirt. When I reached the table, she graciously listened to me share a story about my dad, inspired by the recollections of her childhood. It was an honor to meet an extraordinary writer who has shared her life as a message, and to have the chance to thank her for her work. Participating in the Decatur Book Festival has taught me that stories, like the myriad people who seek them, find us in unexpected ways and at the opportune time. This confluence of discovery and creativity has empowered me to explore my own voice and courageously share my stories with others.