by Anne Bogel
15
Bookseller for a Day
My earliest career aspirations did not involve the reading life. When adults started asking the unavoidable question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I answered as any respectable third grader would: president, astronaut, firefighter, country music singer.
It didn’t last.
By the time I reached high school, my favorite career fantasy involved hand-selling books at a charming independent bookstore by day and living in a book-filled, walk-up studio by night. I didn’t devote a lot of time to imagining how exactly I’d fill my workaday hours—hey, I was fifteen, what did I know?—but in my mind I dwelt on the important moments: leaning on the counter, telling a customer about a favorite title. Standing by the tall shelf, pointing to exactly the right book for a reader—or the reader’s granddaughter, or wife, or friend. Climbing the library ladder, plucking a rarely requested title off the highest shelf for the customer who asked for it by name. And, in quiet moments, settling in behind the counter, a cup of steaming tea beside me, nose in a book. And not just any book—a gorgeous, literary hardcover, its cover a rich hue suited to the sepia tones of my daydreams.
I’ve dreamed of working in a bookstore, or owning a bookstore, or at the very least, of spending enough dollars at a bookstore that its denizens cheer my arrival and greet me by name, since I was a kid. In my imagination my bookstore is a friendly yet irresistible destination, a temple to the written word, a community hub, a spot where readers gather around the common love of reading, discuss lofty literary and quotidian concerns, always find the books they’re looking for—and the toilets clean themselves.
I was head over heels in love with my imaginary bookstore, and I’d long been dreaming of working in such a place one day. But then a bona fide bookstore-owning friend offered me a temporary—very temporary—gig in her shop for one day. I was worried that working in an actual bookstore would totally burst my illustrious, imaginary bubble. Spoiler alert: it did not. But it did change the way I imagined the bookstore of my dreams. It changed the way I see all bookstores.
I love bookstores because I love books. In a bookstore, books are the stars. This focus is reflected in some bookstore names, like Alexandria’s Hooray for Books!, Brooklyn’s Books Are Magic, and Manhattan’s Books of Wonder. Books are wondrous, no doubt about it. But my stint as a bookseller showed me that in addition to those glorious books, the bookstore itself is an unappreciated wonder. I was awed by my behind-the-scenes glimpse of how much work, planning, organizing, logistics, luck, and magic it takes to bring those books to the readers in a bricks-and-mortar store. I adore a good bookstore, yet I vastly underestimated what it took to operate that particular wonder.
First, the books themselves: the selection varies by store, of course—and then it varies by day. Each individual book is lovingly put together over the course of years by its author, with help from agents, editors, copy editors, art designers, cover directors, photographers, publicists, marketers, sales professionals, and more. These books cover every topic imaginable. Some came out last Tuesday; some came out two hundred years ago, or two thousand. Every day new books arrive in the store; every day readers buy books and take them home.
But how do those books get there?
Logistics are not my love language, so this is where I start feeling woozy. Several times a year, your local booksellers think about what books they want to appear on their shelves six to nine months later. Some booksellers handpick every title—thousands of them, perhaps tens of thousands. They scan the bookish horizons for new titles that pique their interest and carefully curate their stock to reflect the preferences and personalities of the people who work there and the readers who shop there. They order from publishers and distributors and sometimes authors themselves, and then these shipments originate in different towns and are carried across the country by several different delivery mechanisms, through heat and wind and rain and the occasional natural disaster.
And that’s just the books! My favorite bookstores stock not only hardcovers and paperbacks, but maps of places real and fictional; mugs with store logos or pictures of bookshelves; pens, because readers love pens; socks and tote bags that look like library cards; and little buttons with tiny pictures of Elizabeth Bennet. The bookseller first selected and then ordered everything (all from different places, of course), and then these disparate goods (all invoiced separately) originate in different towns and are carried across the country (and sometimes the world) to come together under one roof.
Once the goods arrive, they still have to find their way into the hands of the right readers. Sometimes these readers know what they’re looking for: their next book club selection, a gift for a grandchild, the next book in a favorite series.
Sometimes readers know what they’re looking for, but they need help finding it. During my bookselling day, I discovered that an important part of the job is solving customers’ mysteries.
“I didn’t catch the title, but I heard about it on NPR, and the author used to date Steve Jobs.”
“I forget the title, but it was published last week, and it’s by a woman.”
“I forget the title, but it has the word man in it, and I think it’s blue.” (If my experience is anything resembling typical, booksellers spend an astonishing portion of their days trying to come up with forgotten titles.)
Sometimes a reader doesn’t know what she wants to read next, and she comes to the bookstore seeking the answer. Booksellers have a unique perspective on who is reading what: they see it on their floors every day. They’re equipped to handle reader questions.
“I just finished A Gentleman in Moscow. Can you recommend something similar?”
“I loved The Kitchen House, but I need a change of pace.”
“My book club loved Middlemarch but hated Wuthering Heights. What should we read next?”
Bookstores, by their nature, share much in common. I know the common features I love to see, which I seek out at every store I visit: a prominent new release table for fiction and nonfiction, a healthy “staff picks” selection, a rack of clever greeting cards, a children’s section stocked full of colorful titles at the eye level of a four-year-old. These relative similarities make it even more striking in how they diverge, depending on each store’s specific owner, approach, city, and culture. A whole section devoted to local authors and interests and attractions. A robust pen display, or a broad selection of local pottery or chocolates or coffee. An eclectic mix of books and gifts and stuff that makes you feel that store couldn’t be anywhere other than St. Louis or Santa Cruz or Stockholm. The markers that tell you where you are, that say You are here.
My day as a bookseller did destroy one of my romantic illusions: the booksellers aren’t sitting behind the counter losing themselves in good books. They’re focused on the hundreds of small tasks it takes to get the right book into your hands. But it turns out that, for booksellers, putting those books into the hands of the right customers is the best part of the job.
16
Book Twins
It took me thirty-five years to find my twin. The resemblance is undeniable: we share the same outlook, style, and sensibility. At first glance we might seem one and the same, practically interchangeable. But those who know us well can tell us apart, seeing our similarities, yes, but also our subtle differences.
We’re not bound by blood or formal ties. We’ve never shared a last name or an address or even Thanksgiving dinner. Our twinness is confined to our reading lives: she’s that remarkable reader whose taste bears an astonishing resemblance to my own. My reading life has been better since I found her, simply because she steers me to read more of what I enjoy and less of what I don’t. I was dismayed when I once read that more books are published on any given Tuesday than I could read in an entire year, and that’s just one Tuesday—and one year.
From the vast array of titles, how am I to find the books I will love, the ones that will feel like they’re meant for
me? I won’t claim that despair never creeps in, but two readers can cover more ground than one. My twin discovers books I might otherwise have missed, she enthusiastically recommends books she’s read and knows I will love, she sacrifices herself by reading a promising-sounding book that proves to be forgettable, thus saving me the time.
I do the same for her, pointing out titles she should prioritize, and titles she can safely skip, because I read them first and can confidently say her finite reading time is better spent elsewhere. Despite initial appearances, we aren’t identical, and we’ve learned to vet books not just for ourselves, but for each other. She’s comfortable going a little darker; I’m comfortable with more stylized prose. She has more patience for the magical; I’ll put up with the sappy. We know each other’s tastes, and we each read more great books than we used to, because we’ve discovered a shortcut to finding the good stuff.
A book twin is a joy, and I highly recommend finding one, if you can. But as a reader, I’m up against centuries of must-read literature, with more pouring forth every week. It’s great to have a twin, but I’m grateful for my wider literary family. If we’re to divide and conquer these titles, we need each other. I’m constantly on the lookout for like-minded readers, those kindred spirits whose circles overlap my own on the Venn diagram of reading tastes. I would be lost without my fellow readers who tell me what they enjoyed, and why. Who give me clues as to what I will enjoy, or not. Will that book be worth my time? I rely on my reader companions to guide me. I know their taste, and I understand how it relates to my own.
Once, on the field hockey sidelines, I overheard one parent gushing to another about a book she had just finished. “It’s the best book I’ve read all year!” she raved. “Do you like to read? You have to read it. I know you’ll love it!”
Her enthusiasm attracted the attention of other parents nearby. “What book is this?” they asked. She shared the title, urging them all to read it immediately. “You will all love it,” she assured them. “Everyone should read it.”
I stole a glance over my shoulder. I didn’t know the excited reader, but I could see other parents reaching for iPhones and notepads to take down the title; one woman announced she’d just bought it online, on the spot. I opened my mouth, and then shut it again. She wasn’t talking to me. Deep breath. Another. Oh, help. What’s a reader to do? Because I hated that book.
It was fresh on my mind; I’d read it just the week before. I’d opened it on a Saturday morning and quickly realized it probably wasn’t right for me but kept reading. I’ll say this for the book: it had narrative drive. I was curious about what would happen next—and I kept turning the pages, even though the story made me cringe, even though I suspected I’d regret the time spent on it. I finished the next day, and as I turned the last page, all I could think was, Did I just choose to spend four hours of my life on this?
I sat on the sidelines and ran through my options: Should I speak up for the common good? What were my obligations to my fellow readers? Was I blowing this out of proportion?
I decided the answer to the last question was definitely “maybe,” and I kept my mouth shut. Besides, I didn’t know their taste. It wasn’t the right book for me, but it could have been right for those readers. But that conversation got me thinking: I rely heavily on my fellow readers to find great books to read. I spend my precious and finite reading time on the books I’m most excited about—and more often than not, my excitement springs from another reader’s enthusiastic recommendation.
Bookish enthusiasm is contagious, but it isn’t sufficient—not if I want to find the books that are truly right for me, and for you to find the ones right for you. It’s easy enough for me to say, “I liked that book,” or “I didn’t,” but I often struggle to explain why. I’m constantly surprised at how difficult it is to articulate my thoughts on what I’ve read in a way that is coherent, useful, and enjoyable, whether I’m sharing a five-thousand-word formal review or a twenty-word text message. But I feel I owe it to my fellow readers to try, because my comments help others decide what is worth reading and what should be read next.
I dread the feeling of closing a book, thinking, Did I just choose to spend four hours of my life on this? I’m certain it will happen again; it’s a peril of the reading life. But in recent years, two things have helped me keep that sinking feeling at bay.
The first is how I choose my books: I’ve always striven to be a careful reader, one who thoughtfully engages with what she’s reading; I’ve learned to bring that same level of care not just to reading, but to choosing which books to read in the first place.
The second is my book twin, who, knowing my taste, throws good books in my path and steers me away from the duds. You can have a vibrant reading life without one, I suppose. But I’m glad I don’t have to.
17
Again, for the First Time
My parents moved into their current home when I was two years old. One advantage to their not moving while my brother and I were growing up (or since) was this: upstairs in the corner bathroom—the one that was mine—is an old strip of paint on one side of the door frame. My parents have taken good care of their home, but this door frame hasn’t been painted since shortly after they moved in.
That’s because once my brother and I were able to stand on our own, my mom measured us against that door frame every so often, recording our current height with her pencil, marking our growth. As we were growing up, we could look at both the current and past markings to see how much we’d changed.
Like so many readers, I maintain a virtual shelf on Goodreads of books I’d like to read one day. I haven’t added to this shelf in years; it isn’t how I track my pressing, highest priority reads. Despite my neglect, this shelf holds 819 titles I would very much like to read one day.
I’m far from alone with my massive To Be Read list—on Goodreads and elsewhere—and I doubt my number even counts as “massive” by some readers’ standards. Despite this list, which will surely not only remain unfinished when I die, but grow ever longer until then, I am an avid rereader of good books.
Many devoted readers, lovers of good literature, never read the same book twice. Their TBR list is too long to justify spending time on books they’ve already read, they say. I’m sympathetic to their point of view. But I’m not about to change my rereading ways. I’ve found that a good book not only holds up to repeated visits, but improves each time we return to it.
Thousands of years ago, the Greek philosopher Heraclitus wrote, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” That growth chart in my parents’ house isn’t being updated anymore; I’m long past the stage of growing three inches a year. But I am still growing, changing—not the kind of growth you can measure against a door frame, but the kind you can see measured against the books I’ve read. Books worth coming back to, not just because they keep changing for me, but because I am changing as well.
When I find myself in a dreaded reading slump, nothing boosts me out of it faster than revisiting an old favorite. Old books, like old friends, are good for the soul. But they’re not just comfort reads. No, a good book is exciting to return to, because even though I’ve been there before, the landscape is always changing. I notice something new each time I read a great book. As Italo Calvino wrote, “A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.” Great books keep surprising me with new things.
Sometimes this has to do with my point of view, with what I know when I open the book. The first time I read a book, I immerse myself in the story. I’m not concerned with catching every nuance; if it’s truly a good book, I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. The first time, I want to find out what happens. Who are these people in the pages, what do they want, why do they matter? On my first pass, I’m figuring it all out. On the second pass, the experience is qualitatively different. Read Anne of Green Gables once, and you’re shocked when she cracks the slate over Gilbert’
s head. Read it the second time, and you read that scene through the lens of knowing everything that will come after. Read Persuasion the first time, and you shudder at every successive relational plot turn. Read it again, and—remembering the ending—you read it differently, knowing every character’s inner thoughts, motivations, and shortly-to-follow resolutions.
I experienced this vividly recently when I reread Crossing to Safety for the fourth or fifth time. Stegner’s work continues to improve for me on each successive reading. (It took me four or five times through before I finally grasped the meaning of the title.) The book opens with unfamiliar characters, approaching what is soon to become a deathbed. The first time I read the book I was confused: I didn’t know these people, or why they were gathered, or how they’d ended up here, or what they were feeling. The second time, when I already knew the intricacies of the plot, I was caught off guard by my immediate tears. I had been unprepared for the difference, but there it was: this time I knew these people, and I stepped immediately into their sorrow. It was the difference between glimpsing a stranger’s funeral procession from afar and participating in a loved one’s, up close.
That book wasn’t quite the same when I read it again, but not just because of what I knew about the book. No, the book was different because I was different. Since the last time I read the book, my own reality had changed.
In Crossing to Safety, Stegner lays out the stories of two ordinary couples and their intertwined lives, using their relationships to explore themes that matter to me—love and friendship, work and marriage, suffering and loss. Larry is a writer, underwhelmed by his own success; Sally contracts a sudden and incurable illness and faces it bravely; Sid is a man in love, whose beloved wife pushes him around; Charity’s shadow falls over all—she’s a dominant personality who orchestrates everyone else’s lives. These characters feel like friends to me, and while some may raise an eyebrow at that sentiment, devoted readers know what I mean.
