Tag Archives: used books

Patience–or a Good Single Malt

Wednesday is Jack’s blog-writing day. Enjoy!

Patience is a virtue, and we haven’t got any in our bookstore. Wendy and I regularly have some permutation of this conversation: “Nobody ever buys [sports/economics/self-help/old decorating books] so let’s get rid of them.”

Then, just before we gather them into a box for crafting purposes, someone comes to the check-out with a beatific smile and an armful of the “impossible sells” and says something along the lines of “It’s so hard to find these nowadays! How delightful that you have some! I’m going to tell everybody about this place.”

I think it’s a combination of wanting a tidy shop, finally coming to the end of our shelf space (Do you hear that, Wendy?!) and paranoia that we’re wasting what little we have left when it could better be used for a popular category: to wit, Vampires.

Oddly enough, the “wait patiently” game reminds me of when we sold our 1706 gatehouse in England before moving to the States permanently. The real estate man told us that because it was a quirky historic property we shouldn’t expect to sell straight off, but rest assured that somewhere out there someone was certainly looking for just such a quirky 1700s historic property. All we needed was patience. And sure enough, eight months later, he was proven right.

Patience, and single malt.

So we try to have patience, reminding ourselves that there is a book for everyone, and everyone for a book. Especially at Christmas, when desperate shoppers pick up things like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and say, “He likes travel; this’ll do.”

It’s the thought that counts. And of course, when the thoughts bounce off the target, we’ll be seeing those books back again. Ah, yes – back again? Patience, dear!

It’s all part of the circle of bookshop life.

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Filed under Big Stone Gap, folklore and ethnography, small town USA

Thank you, Mr. S

The sweetest note arrived at our bookstore late last week. I opened the hand-addressed envelope and a ten-dollar bill fell out.

Good start.

The accompanying letter was from Mike S of Rhode Island, who said he’d come across my book in a used bookstore in Connecticut (Book Barn) and picked it up for a fiver. (Which settles one of the questions that Jack, my agent Pamela, and I have been debating: how long would it take for Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap, a book about a used bookstore, to hit the used books market? 32 days.)

But those of you who have read it know that Chapter 24 (or so) deals with how artists do or don’t get paid for their work, pointing out that resale rarely benefits the creator, etc. etc. Mike said he enjoyed the book so much, he felt he had to send me something as the creator of it, hence the ten-spot. Now isn’t that sweet, kind, genteel?

But Mike also pointed out something that’s been on my mind since my NYC discussion with Nichole (my editor at St. Martin’s Press) last month, when she emphasized that only 5% of all booksales in America are through independent bricks-and-mortar shops. Mike (clearly a man of discerning tastes) likened the rise of little bookshops everywhere to the craft beer industry. A market that used to have just three or four big and basic tastes now has microbreweries everywhere–and those little guys have put the social back into drinking. They’ve returned fun to a business that was sinking under its own weight.

Smallness can revolutionize homogeneous bigness. Etsy is doing so for crafters in other materials besides hops; I have friends selling their gorgeous homemade pottery and knitwear–stuff Walmart will never see and that will outlast anything you buy there–for reasonable prices on that small-creators site. And of course, Jack and I run the classic example of a little bookstore: independent, used, and ours. No corporate manuals, no CEO other than Val-Kyttie (whose every whim is catered to, natch).

So, Mr. Mike, as I said in my return thank you note–a thank you note for a thank you note? Anyway–you have done me three good turns: added an example to the thought path I’m headed down, this juxtaposition of little bigness in the American marketplace; gave Jack, Andrew, and me a laugh when that $10 fell to the floor; and funded kitten kibble for the home team. Staff kitten Owen Meany says, “Thank you, Mr. S.”

So say we all.

 

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Filed under Big Stone Gap, book reviews, folklore and ethnography, humor, publishing, small town USA, Uncategorized, VA