I’ve been going to bookstore longer than I have wanted to be a writer. I was assigned to complete a bookstore analysis this week, and I thought this would be a particularly easy reflective piece. I bribed one of my hall-mates with Chinese food if he brought me into town. After devouring some orange chicken, we stopped in the Bennington Bookshop. The store was pretty empty, thus creating an awkward atmosphere when I walked in with a notepad and a pen, recording random blurbs of what I thought was important. Learn everything you can about the bookstore. Genre, location, quantity, and everything else. Everything, I thought. What else is there to learn about a bookstore? I continued around the shelves, noticing how the 40% off shelf was larger than the Fantasy/Sci-fi shelf, noticing the kids section tucked far in the back corner, and noticing nothing but book covers stacked against each other carelessly like merchandise. Well, that’s exactly what they are, right? I ended up using $30 to purchase the Writer’s Market. Ginge, whom was bribed, drove me back to the dorms only to get a text from Jeff asking if I wanted to go to the Northshire Bookstore with him.
Jeff had the same assignment as me, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to grab more info. The bookstore itself was stunning, consisting of three floors and a cafe. Though, ordering a coffee was harder than trying to get a taxi on the streets of Boston. The two of us spent a few hours tearing the store apart, looking for something spectacular to put on our reflection.
When I now think about the nature of the assignment, I realize it’s significance. We aren’t just readers when we walk into bookstores, these are the warpaths of the future. As much as we want to consider what we write to be brilliant pieces of art, we are lucky if they even get considered for these slush-piles.
Stage Fright 