I can’t find the book.

There’s no reason why I can’t find it—the books adorning our floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall built-in bookshelves are organized alphabetically by author. Sure, a dozen spines poke out at odd angles and my Dave Eggers collection is screaming for its own gallery, but I always know where to find a desired title.

Except this morning, National Tell a Story Day, when I felt the urge to revisit my first published story, an essay that appeared in Living Jewishly: A Snapshot of a Generation. My piece, the aptly titled "34 is the New Tween," was selected for inclusion in the anthology a decade ago, and I remember being proud of my contribution. It was cathartic to write about a time when my friends were getting married, having babies, moving to the suburbs…and I was not. I even read an excerpt out loud at the public book launch.

I also recall reading it a few years after the fact and feeling a twinge mortified—not necessarily by the topic, but by how I chose to write about it.

Maybe that’s sort of the point? Storytelling is a powerful tool that, when done effectively, engages, evokes emotions, sparks empathy, and connects our past to our present. Forty-something me would not write the same story as 30-something me. But whatever essay I might publish today would be shaped by all the experiences and stories that came first.

It is probably for the best that the paperback is currently hiding in plain sight; I won’t waste any of today’s sunshine scrutinizing my previous narrative voice. But the next rainy day? My bookshelves need some attention.