Nothing changed when I finally opened the box of books that arrived on my front step on Valentine’s Day.

I’d been waiting for this box with bated breath for weeks. And when it arrived, I put it on the counter, forgot about it, and went about arranging the flowers I’d bought for my wife to celebrate the holiday.

I wasn’t going to open that thing until my kids were home.

This box contained the author copies of my debut YA novel, “Strong Like You.” My publisher shipped me 15 of them. The book isn’t out until March 12.

I’ve wanted to write since I was in elementary school. I’ve wanted to publish books since high school. And I got serious about it in 2017, churning out 13 manuscripts before finally getting a foot in the door.

It’s been wild.

And it’s been fun.

And I am grateful and excited.

But opening the books in my living room with my family sitting around me, I was amazed at how normal it felt. There’d been all this buildup. I’ve seen other authors cry in their unboxing videos. I opened the books, marveled at the cover, flipped through the pages, reread the blurbs and sniffed the binding. (yes, I'm a book smaller)

I signed a copy for each of my kids and handed them out. It was fantastic. But it was all extremely normal.

I felt a little cheated – not by the moment, but by myself.

This should matter more to me. I’ve worked so hard for it!

But the goalposts have shifted. When I started, the goal was to write for a living. I started doing that in 2012 at the newspaper. Then it was to get an agent, which happened in 2020. Then it was to get a book deal, which happened two years later. Now, my mind is on bigger things. More books. Awards. Bigger deals. And making enough money to write books for a living.

I have this innate and intense fire, fueled, it seems, by jet engine fuel, to keep going. To build and build and build.

Someone told me to enjoy all the little moments on this writing journey.

And I do enjoy them.

But I refuse to feel bad about goalpost shifting either.

Bob Dylan summed it up perfectly in the documentary, “No Direction Home.”

“An artist has got to be careful never really to arrive at a place where he thinks he’s at somewhere,” he said. “You always have to realize that you’re constantly in a state of becoming. And, as long as you can stay in that realm, you’ll sort of be alright.”

Dylan, a mercurial performer who refused to be hemmed into a singular style of music, knew a lot about this. He could have lived out all his days as “the voice of a generation,” known forever as possibly the greatest American folk musician to have ever lived.

But rock and roll beckoned.

Dylan wanted more. He wanted to build. Most of all – he never wanted to stop.

That’s where all artists should live.

Opening a box of books in my den with my family gathered around was a beautiful moment – one I am filled with gratitude to have experienced.

But it is only among the first stones of many on the road to wherever I’m going.