Ode to the Bookstore

 I have a new-found appreciation for bookstores.

On Sunday, while in Brooklyn, a borough I barely know, I came across the most enchanting bookstore. It is called the Center for Fiction, and the books contained within are so beautifully and artistically laid out, with lots of vertically placed books accessible by ladders. Even the lighting is artistic. They have a cool cafe and people were reading books, perusing their laptops, sipping beverages and chatting. It was such a welcoming space. I felt like I could live in that space.

This reminded me of visiting the Drama Bookshop in Manhattan. They have books strung up on heavy string dangling overhead, with lovely displays and so many interesting and hard-to-find books and scripts. The whole shop shouted books and exuded book energy. It felt like going to a book museum.

And this reminds me of a beloved independent bookstore near me that went out of business a few years ago. We used to have our writing groups there in the basement. We'd sit around a beautiful old oak table surrounded by local artwork for purchase. Upstairs you could buy wine and light fare. They would, on occasion, have authors and poets do readings and sell their books.

But that wonderful independent bookstore didn't make it because books on Amazon are much cheaper, and they arrive so much faster. I know that a lot of people prefer to get library books, use the Libby app, or read on Kindles. I know that a lot of people don't wish to spend money on books or have them take up space in their houses. I certainly get it.

But we make our choices. And if we choose cheaper and faster, over patronizing independent bookstore owners, we lose a living, breathing, important part of our culture. (I shall now get off my soapbox.)