Save the Bookstores!

I have a thing for books. All things book actually – paperback books, hard covers, libraries (bonus points for the little free ones), book blogs, book jewelry, book T-shirts, bookstagram, and of course, bookstores.

One of my greatest joys in life is an afternoon saunter through a bookstore. Almost any bookstore will do. Even that crazy metaphysical one with all the crystals – okay, okay, especially that one.

It’s everything from the smell of the paper to brightly colored covers to the reverent quiet chatter of readers. And then there’s the part about being an aspiring author. Bookstores support writers and writers support bookstores. When authors schedule a book tour, who do they call? Bookstores. Preserving our independent bookstores helps preserve a market for our labor and a base for our tribe.

Well, with my huge thing for books, I have no idea why it has taken me so long to arrive at this this particular realization—if I want bookstores to stick around, I have to BUY BOOKS FROM BOOKSTORES.

My millennial butt has become extremely reliant on amazon especially because getting out of the house with two small kiddos in tow is tough. The immediate gratification of wanting a book and having that book delivered to my doorstep the very next day is also awesome. But. Not as awesome as the aforementioned afternoon saunter.

So I’m making a commitment. I am going to buy 90% of my books from my local independent bookstores. Even if that means ordering it from them and *gasp* waiting several days for it to arrive. This will mean, not just one, but TWO trips to a bookstore. How did I perceive this as a problem in the first place?

If you share my love of all things book and have money to spend on these delights, consider this commitment for yourself. Save the afternoon saunter in your hometown.

(Oh and then consider putting those books in one of those little free libraries after you’re finished so someone without the money to spend can enjoy it too.)

**A special thank you to my local bookstore, Mrs. Dalloway’s, for the SHOP LOCAL pin.

Thank you Margaret Atwood

When I was pregnant with my daughter, a friend warned me not to read The Handmaiden’s Tale. Feeling emotionally tender at the time, I heeded her advice and shelved Margaret Atwood’s iconic work for the future. A few years later, the urge came again. I just needed to read it, even though I was pregnant again with another little girl.

I had a long TBR pile on my bedside table, but The Handmaiden’s Tale demanded to jump the line. So, I dove in. And I enjoyed it. The protagonist’s voice felt both intimate and prophetic as she whispered her story to me.

Then halfway through, on August 1st, I got a phone call. A phone call that changed everything. A massive aneurysm ruptured in my mom’s brain. My mom, my first best friend. I was on the west coast while she was on the east coast. All I could do was wait. Well, wait, panic, meditate, obsessively call for information, attempt to pack a bag, and tell my mom through the ether than I love her completely.

Thanks to good weather, helicopter airlifts, and surgeons willing to take a chance on a severe case, my mom’s brain stopped bleeding late into the night. Now we just needed to wait some more. Would she survive? Would she open her eyes? Would she speak or move again?

Flights booked and bags packed, I laid down that night and tried to get the rest I would need for the coming day. But my mind whipped around trying to understand what had happened and find a way through an unfathomable new reality. I reached over to my bedside table and picked up Atwood’s book. With my friend’s warning echoing in my mind, I second-guessed my impulse. Should I read this now?

But I wanted to be with the woman they called Offred.

Offred’s situation and my own were worlds apart, but this story understood the loss, the fear, the unknown, the confusion, the pain, the crushing aloneness, and even the splinter of hope in my heart. The book held me long enough that I could close my eyes, and then at some point in the early morning hours I found a bit of sleep.

I woke into my unimaginable existence again – but I felt a little stronger.

Against all odds, my mom survived the night, and I finished The Handmaiden’s Tale at her bedside in the ICU. I haven’t picked up another book since. Once my mom opened her eyes and said my name, I wanted to be in every moment. Week after week, my mom continued to endure risk after risk, surgery after surgery, on her journey to recovery.

When I came home, I had a hard time returning to my work. How can I write? What difference does it make? And then I remembered how Margaret Atwood held me in a way that no other could in those desperate moments. So I picked up a pen.

For the Love of Reading: Classic vs. Contemporary

I always thought I was a slow reader.

In school, I learned to comprehend and analyze great literature. I also learned that reading was tedious. It took me all summer to make it through the assigned lists and hours upon hours after school during the year.

My ‘slow reader’ identity stuck with me all through grad school and into my professional life. It wasn’t until I took a real vacation and went to the beach that I discovered the amazing pleasure of reading. Apparently, I read quite fast—when I love the book.

I realized that The Babysitters Club was the last piece of fiction I chose for myself until adulthood. I missed out on so much joy. I wish I had graduated middle school or high school with the love of reading in addition to my literary analysis skills. I wish I had found books that held my heart and kept me company as I grew up.

Profound works that stand the test of time are critical for a solid education. I don’t want kids to lose Shakespeare or Fitzgerald. And I wonder if helping kids learn to love reading might be more foundational, since if they love reading they might pick up even more great novels on their own.

Looking into the history of young adult literature, I discovered that there was a bit of a dip in the genre around the 90s, right when I would have been looking for this content. Since then, YA lit experienced a golden age and blossomed across categories. There are books about basketball playing poets, cancer patients falling in love, best friend spies and pilots in World War Two. I can’t thank all of the YA authors enough for writing and writing and writing.

Unlike the classics, these books are contemporary, and, maybe more importantly, they center on characters much closer to the age of a YA reader. They still embody the great themes—death, betrayal, atrocity, love—but they might be more relatable to the reader. In addition, the authors of exemplar texts are predominantly old white men. While there is still an aching need for diversity in YA, kids have a much better shot of finding a character or an author that looks like them. And when the book lines up with the reader just right, it might spark that magical, mystical, incredible spark that sets her or him up for a lifetime of reading.

I am making up for lost time now. I devour a book a week. I proudly read all the coming of age stories and high school romances that I missed out on. And I don’t think I’m alone. I know so many adults who fell back in love with the written word after reading Harry Potter or Twilight or The Hunger Games.

Teachers, librarians, administrators, and parents—keep making space for your kids to discover a book that might light them up. Thank you for pointing the way. YA authors—keep filling the bookshelves with words that reach deep into our hearts. Contributing a book to the world that may help people come to love reading is an invaluable gift. Young Adults—let me know if you need a good book to rip through.

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