The swish of the entrance pulls my attention away from the book order I’m currently compiling. I don’t recognize the woman walking towards me, but she looks like our average local: white hair, crinkly eyes, and donning an earth-toned waterproof zip up. The small bookshop I own and operate is, after all, situated in the county with the highest number of senior citizens in Washington State. White hair and crinkly eyes are the signature look.
My greeting flies past her as she approaches the counter. She is on a mission, impatient for its resolve, “Do you have Winter in Blood?” she asks, “I don’t know the author.”
She might not, but I do. And fortunately for her, I also know it’s in stock because I know that I ordered it two weeks ago, just like I know that it arrived shortly after and was shelved later that same day. I don’t tell her all that, though. Instead, I simply say we do, and she trails after me as I walk over to it. It’s one of the most satisfying parts of the job- pulling a desired title from its shelf, placing it in the customer’s hands, and watching the delight spread across their face. “Wow,” she says, “how’d you know it was here?”
“That’s the job,” I tell her, laughing.
I know every book we have in stock. Every book that’s on order, pre-ordered, backordered, and currently sitting in a cart ready to be ordered as the budget allows. When I took the reins of my town’s bookshop, a sliver of a space tucked into a Victorian Seaport along the Salish Sea, the idea of holding all that information in my head seemed impossible. But shelving books nearly every day of the week yields that kind of result.
My first encounter with the bookstore was as a customer looking for Ruth Ware’s latest, The Death of Mrs. Westaway(which they had), and Reni Eddo-Lodge’s, Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race (which they didn’t). “We can order it for you though,” the bookseller behind the counter let me know. It would, she said, take about 2 to 3 business days. No fee for shipping.
Now, I became a dedicated patron of bookstores, both new and used, the moment I got my driver’s license. That passion expanded when I started to travel. Books became the souvenirs I brought home with me. Yet it wasn’t until that day that I realized they could special order something in not just for me, but for anyone apparently. As the kind of browser who either finds what they’re looking for or grabs something else, I never thought to ask.
I gave her my details, paid for the Ruth Ware book, and headed home. It may have been a brief interaction, but I left feeling more connected to the space than when I had walked in. Only a local, someone who frequented the shop could special order a book. And I realized at that moment that I was one.
That interaction changed my relationship to the bookstore, and it picked up rapidly from there. My monthly visits turned into weekly ones, which turned into a part time bookseller position, and then into the owner’s offering me the shop just six months into the job at the age of 28. It was a big offer and one I considered carefully before saying yes.
Bookselling before taking ownership, while brief, proved to be beneficial in the transition. In true small-town fashion, the community had no trouble vocalizing their opinions about the change. Some were excited, others concerned. At times it was frustrating. Learning how to run a business on top of managing people’s expectations felt like too big a task. At other times though, I understood that their response stemmed from their connection to the space. The bookshop was established in 1974, and many patrons had been fostering their love of literature via that shop for decades. Some even grew up between those shelves.
As I settled into my new role, I let that understanding guide a lot of my choices. There were changes I was eager to make: painting, rearranging the layout, expanding both stock and space. Instead of diving into those all at once, I held back in the hopes that a slower approach would express my biggest intention; to understand the community from this new position. They were, as I understood, the reason the store’s doors had remained open over the years.
Taking things slow meant making a dozen little choices each day. Instead of refreshing our stock with one big expensive order, I whittled it down to each purchase, deciding whether to replace a title that someone just bought or bring in something new on the spot. Sometimes that looked like ordering new books of my choosing, ones I looked forward to recommending and simply seeing on the shelf. Other times that meant letting the patron guide those decisions, meaning if I noticed a regular paying particular attention to one section, I prioritized replenishing it with something new. In the beginning, ordering felt like chipping away at the world’s largest puzzle. But this approach was ultimately the most helpful. Paying deep attention to each book meant getting to know each customer and letting them get to know me. It was within this dance that a trust developed.
As the community’s confidence in the transition grew, so too did mine. I felt like I was in good hands, and with each returning patron, I knew that feeling was mutual. Soon, I was fielding more requests for recommendations than stock checks. The first step to introducing someone to a new book is to ask the right questions. If they were looking for their next favorite read, I’d lead with, “What’s the last book you loved?” Or, if a person was trying to get back into reading, I’d ask them what they gravitated towards when they were in the throes of reading. Usually, this was enough information to get the ball rolling. Looking for a book about dysfunctional families? Try Will and Testament by Vigdis Hjorth. A fan of Yellowface? You’ll love A Novel Obsession by Caitlin Barasch. In need of a laugh? Wow, No Thank You by Samantha Irby had me rolling. A book you’ll fall head over heels for? When All is Said by Anne Griffin works every time.
I channeled this playfulness into our displays, those books that line the windows and are faced out around the shop. The key to a good display is not newness or popularity but how the books complement each other and their surroundings. It’s a pairing between the titles that are being read and talked about, and similar titles that have been overlooked. Together, they become an invitation to browse, to stay a little longer and enjoy the space. “I loved this one,” a patron would say to a friend while pointing to the book on the shelf. Then immediately pick the one standing next to it up out of curiosity. Feeling seen, I learned, inspired a willingness to try something new.
Curating a bookstore is like holding space for a hundred different conversations, each title saying something about the other and inviting a reader to join in. It’s why no two bookstores are alike. They are shaped by their community, designed by curiosity and playfulness. I learned that trusting patrons’ interests inspired them to trust mine. And the collaboration resulted in a renewed energy that I felt each morning when I arrived at work, a warmth that indies are known for. There’s no algorithm that could have shaped it to be what it needed to be. No one size fits all model. It may be impossible for a small bookstore to carry every book all the time, but it’s their curation that gives them a personality, separates them from any online retailer or chain. They’re intentional. As unique as the people who walk through their door. It’s why our special orders eventually doubled in size and audiobook lovers switched to Libro.fm. It’s why we soon had customers setting up standing orders, people who didn’t care what I put in their bag because they trusted me enough to pick out books suited to their tastes. There are a number of ways to support your local indie bookshop. Giving them an opportunity to get to know you is one of them. Stopping by this Independent Bookstore Day on Saturday, April 25th is another. Picking up a book or two while you’re there doesn’t hurt either.
I didn’t know what would become of the woman who left with a smile on her face, Winter in Blood in hand. But I hoped that the ease of our interaction and the delight of her effort to keep her dollars local was a sign she might return. She did.
