A Perfect Hand, by Ayelet Waldman

After reading a short profile of this novel in the The New York Times Book Review, I knew the premise was right up my alley: a lady’s maid and a valet fall in love while a gentleman is staying at the lady’s estate, and the besotted servants conspire to matchmake their less-than desirable employers so their romance can continue below stairs.

I listened to this as an audiobook, and found it both unexpected and delightful! The time and place are well-researched and described in lively, comedic detail (particularly when it comes to the hilariously unsavory realities of waiting on gentlewomen with foot odor and undergarment stains). The ending is earned, but not quite what you might be anticipating, and the narrator-character is a bit inconsistent.

Still, my Jane Austen adoring heart was captured by this book, and I passed many well-entertained hours in the car, cooking, and doing laundry while listening to this novel.

Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima

After watching Paul Schrader’s adaptation/biopic of Mishima’s life and writings with my boyfriend, and subsequently discussing the film with my bookstore cohort, a few of us decided to make a mini-book club and read this “novel”1 together. The story is narrated from the first-person perspective of a young Japanese man named Kochan, from his birth to his young adulthood, and mainly focuses on the discovery and development of his sexuality: his sexual attraction to men, and his sexual interest in sadomasochism.

Confessions of a Mask was published in Japan in 1949, when Mishima was in his early twenties, and immediately skyrocketed him to national fame. It was translated into English in 1958. My book club mates and I were struck by the unfiltered candor of the narration (which, due to its specificity, lends credence to the idea that the novel is a thinly veiled autobiography), and how the questions of gender presentation and heteronormativity that Kochan grapples with are thoroughly contemporary. The style of prose is not my favorite; I gravitate towards more plot than stream-of-consciousness, but the narrative voice is compulsively readable, and the character so distinct that it’s become a common refrain among our friends to ask: “What would Mishima think about this?”

Blunt Instrument by Amy Bloom

I’m a sucker for a book set in my home city, and while this murder mystery only visits New Haven for a few chapters, I listened to the whole novel. Blunt Instrument is not Amy Bloom’s first foray into Connecticut-based crime fiction. She edited the collection New Haven Noir, which is a perennial bestseller at my bookstore.

Blunt Instrument is Bloom’s take on noir detective fiction, with an emphasis on the detective. Private investigator Dell Chandler carries this novel on her shoulders, with her high intellect, stubborn sleuthing, and just a hint of alcoholism. I found the murder case itself to be a bit lackluster, and it spirals into more thriller territory towards the end, but Bloom writes good characters and cuts into Connecticut archetypes with a delightfully sharp wit.

Remember back in June when I said I don’t usually go for true crime unless it’s written by Patrick Radden Keefe? Well, here we are. London Falling is certainly not Keefe’s best deep-dive into a complex and criminal saga, but even his lesser works are still excellent.

The central event of this particular book is the death of an English teenager, Zac Brettler, who fell into the Thames from the balcony of a notorious London criminal’s apartment. From that incident, Keefe manages to unwind the spider’s web of criminal connections in London, spanning the decades following the fall of the Berlin wall and an influx of former Soviet wealth to the rise of the Internet and its role in enabling con-men and liars to reach new heights. Keefe leaves much of the potential impact of the Zac Brettler’s family dynamics carefully untouched, likely because the project began with a personal request from the family to have Keefe take the story public. Still, with some stones are unturned, the farther-reaching story of conspiracy, exploitation, and unearned wealth in twenty-first century London is fascinating as much as it is unsettling.

If you are a human who eats food, this book is required reading! Giulia Enders leads us on an in-depth tour of the digestive system, from the mouth to…uh…down-south, complete with helpful (and adorable) illustrations by her sister Jill. Enders’ enthusiasm for her field is infectious, and she writes both clearly and comprehensively.

I learned more than I ever thought I could understand about my own gut, including what may be causing the minor digestive issues that have plagued me since childhood. Whether you’re a member of the Tummy Troubles Club or not, this book is an informative delight.

P.S. I highly recommend reading it while you eat, so you can marvel at what your body is doing right now!!

I don’t think it’s possible to be Gen Z and not know John Green. Whether from his educational presence on the Internet or his bestselling run of YA novels in the 2010s, most people in their 20s have encountered John Green in one way or another. Naturally, when his forthcoming (and first) adult novel was announced, I immediately begged our buyer to get an advanced copy for me— and she delivered.

Switching between the perspectives of two young actors, the novel progresses over the length of a film’s production from shooting to press, and focuses on how fame can throw a wrench into both life and love. John Green loves to write in first person, though I think third would have been better given the sense of emotional distance I felt reading both Juniper and Kai’s narrations. The behind-the-scenes nature of the novel was thorough and fun, and I especially enjoyed the supporting characters (particularly the publicist).

It’s a solid comeback for Green’s fiction game, though it served to remind me why I had outgrown his novels in the first place.

Many loved it, many hated it, some were ambivalent, others apathetic, but millions of people across the world were thinking, talking, and debating about a nearly 3,000 year old poem.

I was one such movie-goer, and while I was entertained by the film, I did not like it. Personally, I felt there was too much of The Iliad in this purported adaption of The Odyssey, especially since the complex and much-beloved female characters of the sea-faring epic found themselves on the cutting room floor in favor of Agamemnon Darth Vader-ing it up.

But I’m not here to espouse my opinions about the film. There are more than enough hot-takes out there, including acclaimed translator and classicist Emily Wilson’s much-discussed review. She largely picks apart the film, and her declaration: “there are no sex scenes, and all the food looks horrible,” has been widely circulated and used as fuel for the never-ending Internet content machine. It was the final lines of Emily Wilson’s review, however, which inspired me to write this article:

Despite all this, the release of The Odyssey is still an event to celebrate. In what we are told is the streaming era, this epic is bringing audiences back to cinemas. In what we are told is a time of declining literacy and the ‘death of the humanities’, translations of The Odyssey, including mine, are flying off the shelves. Some of those who buy the book or show up in cinemas to watch Tom Holland may go on to study ancient Greek. Perhaps the film will persuade a few college administrators not to cut their literature, language and history departments. Nolan, who studied English at University College London – where students still study The Odyssey as a first year ‘foundational text’ – is doing his best to get the general public reading again, and I am grateful.

She is right, and I am seeing the proof every day at the bookstore. Leading up to the film’s release, we were selling copy after copy of Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey, and only slightly fewer copies of The Iliad. When the Wilson translation sold out, Gareth Hinds’ graphic novelizations soon followed suit. The week after the film came out, our sales rep from the publisher, W.W. Norton, got in touch to say that they had run out of copies due to national demand, and were printing a new run as soon as possible. At the time of writing, every restock of the book is still sold-out within a week, and the film is now on its fifth week in theaters.

This past winter, Emerald Fennel’s adaptation of Wuthering Heights had a similar effect. Emily Brontë got more love from our customers in a few months than she would normally average in a year. And the film? Well, I think these Letterboxd reviews sum up the response from classic lit fans:

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As Emily Wilson herself wrote, “adaptations needn’t and shouldn’t follow the original with anything like the exactitude of a translation. Some of the best radically transform or resist the source material.” Think of the Coen brothers’ O Brother, Where Art Thou?, Miyazaki’s Howl’s Moving Castle, or Clueless. Each a delightful, popular, and acclaimed adaptation of a classic novel, but with marked changes to setting, plot, and character. I love each of these films just as much as I love the literary works they are adapted from.

Adaptation is both inevitable, and as often wonderful as it is terrible, but there would be no retelling without the foundation of quality from the original text. Thus I argue that the popularity of Nolan’s The Odyssey demonstrates the enduring draw of literature. Be it contemporary, classic, prose, poetry, we are perennially drawn to the singularly intimate way the written word can portray magic, violence, identity, love, loss, humor, family, community, and so much more. No adaptation can ever compare to the original because no piece of storytelling can be exactly recreated in a different medium. The book is always better simply because it is the book.

As The Odyssey craze is dying down, our sales of Steinbeck’s East of Eden are steady (and climbing) ahead of the forthcoming Netflix miniseries adaptation. Will the show be good? That remains to be seen, but what I see with my own two (plus glasses) eyes, are more people than ever reading classic literature. These aren’t reading assignments or ill-fitting gifts from distant relatives; these are readers choosing to pick up a hundred, two-hundred, even 3,000-year old story and engaging with its style, humanity, and relevance, regardless of how accurate the film adaptation may or may not be.

Great Big Beautiful Life by Emily Henry

I am an undisputed Emily Henry fan. I dedicated precious suitcase space on my way home from my year abroad just so I could have a copy of the UK edition of her debut novel Beach Read (the UK version has a slightly different, and better, ending). While I haven’t enjoyed all of her books equally (looking at you, Happy Place), I did enjoy this latest installment in Emily Henry’s romance repertoire.

Great Big Beautiful Life is part-romance novel and part-historical fiction, centered around rival journalists competing for permission to write the biography of Margaret Ives, the famous and reclusive daughter of a media empire. The journalists fall in love (obviously) and Margaret is up to more than just shopping around her life story (naturally).

The novel features Emily Henry’s top-notch skills at setting a perfect rom-com environment, complete with kooky locals and colorful friendships, and building out her main couple as more than just inevitable lovers, but people with complicated lives figuring out what they want for both their relationships and their own identities.

Where Great Big Beautiful Life shifts in a new direction, however, is in the intermittent narration of Margaret’s life. Even though I pick up Emily Henry for a good hair-twirling, feet-kicking love story, I found myself speeding through this one for the historical fiction— imagining other side of the glitz and glam of an old-money Hollywood family, and the havoc generational trauma coupled with fame can wreak on a person.

Unlike the journalist protagonists, the love story of Margaret’s young life ends in tragedy, and her happy ending at the novel’s conclusion comes not from romantic love, but with family. Margaret, though not the main character, is by far the most compelling figure for both the other characters in the novel and for me as a reader.

To me, it seemed like Emily Henry was yearning to write the novel of Margaret Ives, but packaged it in her known and beloved romance format instead of breaking out into something new. The novel felt unbalanced— the form and the content not quite suited to each other, though both were executed well.

For the last several years, Emily Henry’s latest release is out in hardcover as soon as her previous comes out in paperback. This year, she seems to be taking a little longer with her next book. Perhaps Great Big Beautiful Life signals a change in genre focus. She’s pulled off genre transitions before, (before she skyrocketed to the top of the romance bestsellers’ list, Emily Henry was a YA author) and if her next book will be literary historical fiction, I will be eager to read on.

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Family Man: Blood and Betrayal in the House of Murdaugh by James Lasdun

I’m not usually one for true crime (unless it’s written by Patrick Radden Keefe), but I read James Lasdun’s initial reporting of the Murdaugh murders in The New Yorker and found myself sucked into the Faulkner-esque story.

I listened to the audiobook for his full-length study of the case, from the generational pattern of corruption and crime in the wealthy South Carolina family to Alex Murdaugh’s trial and the aftermath (still on-going, at the time of writing).

In brief, for those who don’t know the case, the Murdaughs are a wealthy, white family in South Carolina, predominantly lawyers and litigators. Alex’s son Paul drew national headlines in 2019 when a young woman was killed in a boat crash, which he had been driving while under the influence. In 2021, with a trial looming for Paul’s crash and secret drug debts looming, Alex Murdaugh murdered both Paul and Paul’s mother Maggie, and feigned innocence in the hope that their deaths would garner enough sympathy to solve his problems.

Lasdun provides a deeply researched, thoughtful, and impressively empathetic perspective on the Murdaugh family’s deep-seated dysfunction, and the central question of Alex Murdaugh’s case: could a staunch “family man” such as himself brutally kill his own wife and child?

The fascination I developed while listening the book, was less about the question of Alex Murdaugh’s innocence or guilt (I’m firmly in the guilty camp), but focused instead on the way privilege is woven throughout the twisted and horrible tale.

When a man is raised to expect he can have anything he wants, when he is taught to exert his charm and influence, and if necessary, his physical power, to ensure whatever outcome will best benefit his own interests, he believes not only that he can get away with murder, but that murder of even his most loved ones is worth the anticipated reward of sympathy and (more importantly) acquiescence.

Lasdun paints a vivid and disheartening portrait of not only the crime and its key players, but also of Hampton County, South Carolina, where the primary industries are pulp-logging and lawsuits. The Murdaugh saga draws in members from contrasting communities of the extremely wealthy and the extremely poor, as well as the outsiders becoming embroiled in the media coverage.

Last month, Alex Murdaugh’s conviction was overturned on the grounds that a law clerk engaged in jury tampering, pressuring them to reach a guilty verdict so she could encourage more sales of her tell-all book about the trial. Perhaps a sequel might include the murkiness of justice in this ever-growing attention economy.

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Audition by Katie Kitamura

Last year, Audition was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, included on Obama’s best of 2025 book list, and was one of Publishers Weekly’s top ten books of the year. The novel, however, eluded me completely. It’s short, which appealed when I was searching for my next read, and the reduced page count proved to be a mercy for how baffling the novel turned out to be.

Narrated by a nameless actress of stage and screen, the novel is written in two parts: the first follows her daily life, as she is unsuccessfully preparing for a play, and confronted by a young man who is convinced she is his mother, though she insists it is impossible; the second follows her life where the young man has always been her son and comes back home to live with his parents for an undetermined period of time while she performs successfully in the play.

I recognized the impressive craft of Kitamura’s prose, and was swept along by the hyper-internal narration (no dialogue has quotation marks, it’s just written as the narrator’s mind takes in the words) as almost stream of consciousness.

I understood, too, the overarching theme of the novel as performance: we enact performances of every day life, to ourselves, our loved ones, and to the world. The narrator watches the performances of her husband and son, and judges them, while struggling to recognize the costumes and masks she herself wears each day.

I can absolutely understand why the novel has been lauded and acclaimed, and yet…I didn’t like it. The connection between the two-part timelines was left unresolved and the split left unexplained— genius, or just confusing? The narrator, though the only voice we’re allowed to truly experience, is cold and distant even to herself, and as the filter through which we see all the other characters, leaves them shadowy and unlikeable.

It’s a novel designed to make you think, but really, I haven’t devoted much reflection to Audition between reading the final page and sitting down to write this review. I’m certain it will be many readers’ favorite esoteric novel, but it was not my proverbial cup of tea.

Exit Party by Emily St. John Mandel

Many thanks to our bookstore buyer for letting my have the first read of our advanced readers copy of Emily St. John Mandel’s forthcoming novel, Exit Party. I will keep my review spoiler-free, as the book comes out on September 15th, 2026.

None of Emily St. John Mandel’s books have ever compared to her fourth novel, Station Eleven, which is one of my favorite books of all time. Exit Party, though very good, does not surpass, or even match Station Eleven in my estimation.

Exit Party is, however, well-written and compelling, imagining not one, but two near-future speculations for the world and its order (or lack thereof). Much like her previous work, Mandel studies characters who are making their way in a world that is reshaping itself following a massive disruption. She constructs a complex, if somewhat enigmatic protagonist in Ari, and a decently accessible cast of supporting characters (I, for one, would have rather read an entire novel about not-Gloria).

Exit Party is a novel in two parts, about two worlds, and unfortunately the second part starts a little too late— the worlds are separate, but connected, as well as reflections and refractions of each other. I think the novel’s pacing would be better suited by a back and forth, even if it was just in four parts, switching back only twice, rather than showing us one, and then the other.

The saving grace is the way Emily St. John Mandel utilizes her incredible ability to translate art into written word. In Station Eleven, it was Shakespeare and classical music, in Exit Party, it is a painting of great emotional value to several characters. She describes and transmits the way a striking piece of art can invoke not only emotional feeling, but physical sensation and memory in a way no other author I’ve encountered can.

When Exit Party makes its entrance in September, it’s certainly worth a read— and if you haven’t read Station Eleven, GO READ IT RIGHT NOW!

Thanks for reading Tales from the Bookstore! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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“Shit happens,” she said, “Good and bad, and most of the time it has nothing to do with you— and you can’t do anything to stop or change it.”

Recently, I’d been falling back into that thought pattern, but this week at the bookstore echoed my therapist’s advice.

On Monday, within the first hour of my morning shift, while I was making an inventory count of our vinyl records, a man walked past the window where I stood. He backtracked and stopped on the opposite side of the glass, staring at me.

I pretended not to notice him, but after almost a minute, I walked away hoping he would move on. He did, but not before shouting at me through the glass: “Smile, you fucking bitch!”

Unfortunately not the first time I’ve been called a bitch by a man misbehaving at my workplace, nor the first time I’ve been yelled at by men on the street, but interactions like that one are always hard to shake.

But barely two hours later, a very sweet mother and daughter pair came into the bookstore to escape the torrential downpour, and kill some time. Their agenda involved completing this scavenger hunt:

• a book with a cat

• a book with a dog

• a very silly book

• a book with a castle

• something for under $5 to take home

The daughter must have been about six, and found her less than $5 treat almost immediately— a squishy, stretchy wiener dog. Very politely, she approached me at the register and asked if I could “please keep my dog safe while I read books.” Naturally, I prepared to lay my life down for this small disquietingly textured toy if need be.

The following day, I was working my way through a mountain of pricing and merchandising projects, when I heard a familiar voice from the cafe. This was a voice I did not expect to hear outside of central Pennsylvania, where I had learned much from English seminars held outside on the quad to keep us all from giving each other COVID.

I asked our lead bookseller to cover the register so I could go over and surprise my college professor, and we shared a mutual:

Our catch-up was brief, and oft-interrupted by the aforementioned grandchildren announcing that one was eating the other’s grilled cheese or the other was poking the one, and I decided it would be better to leave them be and write my professor a letter, later.

What a delightful surprise, and a good reminder that the world can be quite small, especially when it comes to people who enjoy literature, and the places which protect and promote them.

And then, of course, something clogged the toilet in the public bathroom badly enough that I had to find a stick outside and…I’m sure you can guess.

Shit happens, and while you can’t do anything to stop it, you can remember that the bad is often followed by the good.

Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

I think I would be justified in saying this is one of, if not the buzziest new release of 2026. Days before the book was released, Anne Hathaway’s production company snapped up the filming rights, and an adaptation is now in the works for MGM, with Hathaway in the lead role of Yesteryear’s controversial protagonist.

The premise of Yesteryear is as follows: A mega-successful tradwife influencer wakes up one morning, transported back in time to the 1850s, and must now live the “traditional” life of a Christian wife and mother that she promotes on social media.

In April and May, my own Substack feed was filled with review after review of this novel, with telling subtitles like “Yesteryear is not a novel” and “The Year’s Biggest Book has Nothing to Say.” I avoided reading any of these lukewarm takes until I’d finished the novel myself (via Libro.fm audiobook).

Was this the best novel of 2026? Absolutely not.

Does this book deserve the avalanche of negative reactions which followed the book’s massive marketing release? I don’t believe it does.

In my opinion, the headlines that appear when you search for “Yesteryear book review” suffer greatly from my generation’s tendency toward hyperbole for the sake of interaction– the statement that Yesteryear is “not a novel” and has “nothing to say” is reductive and generalizing.

The body of most of these reviews provide good criticisms of the novel with which I agree: the narrator is not so much unreliable as she is a flat and narratively inconsistent protagonist; the “twist” ending is a major let-down of a promising premise; and while I have no personal experience with fundamentalist Christian communities, I can understand that for the ex-Evangelical or ex-Mormon reader, Burke’s conflation of very different ideologies into a generic extreme religion is distasteful.

In my opinion; however, the novel is far from meaningless. The sections which engaged me most involved the protagonist’s interactions with the women in her life: her mother, her sister, her college roommate, and her producer. Each relationship is fraught and dysfunctional in a myriad of ways, but the developments of the characters’ dynamics, and the way the protagonist thinks about these other women in relation to her own irrational expectations for femininity left me reflecting long after I’d paused the audiobook.

If anything, I think the novel suffered from its general focus on the “Manosphere” and the husband of the protagonist’s descent into the Joe Rogan-ification of masculinity in the Internet age. I am thinking now about the Margaret Atwood quote about male fantasy, how “even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy…you are a woman with a man inside watching a woman.”

The whole performance of the “tradwife” is the submission to male fantasy, and I think I can confidently say that the people seeking out this novel are not interested in becoming a tradwife, but rather watching her come to the realization that she is a woman with a man inside watching a woman (in fact, there is a running motif throughout the novel about imagining you have a little audience at all times which you must perform perfectly for).

My point, then, is that the total page count dedicated to male behavior is irrelevant, when women are presumably intimately acquainted with the way men – at the least the men who populate this novel – think and fantasize. What we, or rather I, am interested to explore with a novel like this, is how a woman can observe all the facets of femininity presented to her, even her closest female role models making changes and developing independence away from the standard she has known, and still choose the most restrictive, unsustainable male fantasy.

It happens every day, on and off the page– and I want to read more about that, and less about how making a sourdough starter in the 1850s is really difficult.

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Bookstores may thrive on business, but booksellers are sustained by regulars. A regular, as defined by me, is a customer who frequents the bookstore at least three days out of seven in the typical work-week and generally are somewhere on the Norm Peterson/Cliff Clavin spectrum of familiarity with the rhythms of the store and staff.1

We have several such bookstoreflies at my place of work, and I have a great fondness for each of them, and their sitcom-character-worthy personalities.

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Series Regulars

Norm! It’s the regulars who come in every day for breakfast-brunch-lunch-afternoon snack, and a ritual browse around the bookstore. Norm chats with me about what they’re reading, and I’ve convinced them to revisit Jane Austen away from the high school English class mood-killer, as well as helped them pick out gifts for their friend’s kids.

By day, Norm might be a business owner or a librarian or a university professor. By night, Norm repatriates lost and stolen artifacts to East African countries, volunteers with refugees and sails a boat from New Haven to Charleston and back. Norm was once in a long-term relationship with a very charming ferry captain and at another point eloped on a beach in South India while living in a Catholic monastery.

Norm is simultaneously very tall and very short and wears beautiful professional work dresses and arrives every day in a tee shirt and cargo shorts. Norm always has a breakfast sandwich with a sunny side-up egg and buys a mini-chocolate truffle as a treat for later.

Norm is a big fan of David Sedaris, legal drama films, and realistic space fiction. We’ve had lengthy discussions about Orbital by Samantha Harvey and how stinking cute Ryan Gosling is in the movie adaptation of Project Hail Mary, as well as The Pelican Brief versus Erin Brockovich (Julia Roberts, or Julia Roberts– so many choices!).

Co-Starring

Cliff, who is all at once a man in his forties, a woman in her eighties and a man of indeterminate but certainly past retirement age, doesn’t come in every day, but can be reliably expected to make an appearance weekly or bi-weekly.

Across the board, Cliff is usually unhappy about something, and likes to talk to me about it with a signature dry wit that always bears repeating when I get home at the end of the day. Once, Cliff was miffed at the expectation they must buy a gift for their coworker’s baby simply because the baby will be making an office-visit. They generally disapprove of the decision to “procreate under this current political climate.” They do; however, approve of promoting homosexuality at a young age, and landed on Frog and Toad are Friends as a suitable gift.

Cliff returns books almost as often as they buy them, either because they bought the book already and forgot, or because they got thirty pages in and decided it wasn’t worth the continued hand-eye coordination to finish. Once, Cliff bought a book and disliked it so much they brought it back and asked us to do what we pleased with it– no refund necessary, just get rid of it.

I don’t know what it is about Cliff, maybe their softspoken displeasure but consistent presence, but whenever I see them I am suddenly possessed by the ghost of a mid-century sportsman and greet them with a boisterous “Cliff, you old so-and-so, how the heck are ya!” which is usually followed by an Eeyore-esque sigh.

Special Guest Star

Well, well, well, if it isn’t our favorite UPS delivery driver! Always late on a Monday, always says yes to our offer of an ice-cold lemonade, often flirtatious though not to the extent one might expect from watching Legally Blonde.

No idea what or even if our UPS driver likes to read, but I know he’s a Spider-Man fan, because when I’m walking around downtown and I see him making deliveries to other addresses, he always stops so we can do this:

In the hit sit-com version of this bookstore world, I think having a special episode where we follow the UPS driver for a day would be an Emmy-winner. Or maybe a snooze-fest…only one way to find out!

And with that, let’s roll the credits.

I’m sure you’ve all heard the news by now. Though it wasn’t announced with a fleet of ceremonial buglers as I requested, you no doubt read the bookstore-wide email Daria sent out instead. It’s official: I am now the assistant bookstore manager.

You may address me as Boss, Coach, Captain, Chief, Big Dog, or even Ma’am, although that title undercuts how remarkably young I am for such a position, I mean, I’m basically a child prodigy, just without the whole being-a-child thing.

I will not tolerate being called Assistant to the Bookstore Manager, as you fans of The Office may be wont to joke, nor will I answer to the name of Ass Man, which while technically an abbreviation, is not within HR guidelines of appropriate workplace language.

That’s right! I’m a stickler for the rules now, baby, and there will be no exceptions (except for myself, obviously). There will be no non-work related conversations on the sales floor unless I initiate them. My jokes must be met with laughter instead of awkward silences, and my opinions must not only be shared by all booksellers, but treated as though they were my own original ideas and not paraphrases of a Substack book review I read this morning.

To that end, we will only be selling books that I like from now on. I am not the buyer’s boss, so she will still order the regular stock, but we will only recommend books with my seal of approval. In fact, I am having special stickers made with a picture of me giving a thumb’s up to be put on the covers of all Jane Austen novels, any whodunnit published from 1920 to 1960, and every edition of Howl’s Moving Castle that has ever been published. Yes indeed, I am the one and only arbiter of taste around here now.

Oh, also, I will no longer be doing tasks that I don’t want to do. No more cleaning bathrooms or touching germy dirty cash for me! From now on, I will be taking eight hours a day to rearrange my staff picks shelf, play with the finger puppets, and redecorate the chalk sandwich board with cartoons of me curb-stomping Jeff Bezos.

Additionally, I will be drafting up a new set of rules, not just for our staff but for our customers as well. These rules will be taped to the door Martin-Luther-style and enforced Queen-of-Hearts-style. Yes, anyone caught shoplifting, putting books back on the shelves with the page-side facing out, coughing or sneezing without covering, attempting a runs-and-run in the bookstore bathroom, discussing how another independent bookstore is better than this one, or generally being a freak in my presence will be hurtled into the midst of the middle school field trip visiting the art gallery across the street and painfully roasted to death by a pack of rabid eighth-graders. I’m the sheriff of the bookshelves, and I will not be trifled with.

What else…oh, yes! Since my authority does not extend to the cafe side of the business and I am only allowed one free drink a day, all booksellers will now be expected to forfeit their complimentary beverages in favor of a large, hot, oatmilk latte with extra lavender syrup. If it is not made with a foam art heart on top, it must be flung dramatically on the floor and another drink demanded. If you’re worried about ruining the company morale, don’t! I firmly believe a nice level of resentment and hatred motivates a workforce better than joy and friendship.

Which brings me to my final change to bookstore procedure– turning the bookselling staff into my own personal content farm. Yes, yes, I’ve already been writing up tales of your exploits and quirks, but now that I’m the boss, you’re supposed to do all the work for me, so I can do bossy things. I expect a new article to pitch every morning in my mailbox and a draft at the end of every week, and if anyone says a word about credit where credit is due…well, you remember those eighth graders, don’t you?

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April showers have brought May flowers and further showers of pollen and petals (ah-choo!). I finished all the books I started this month, which was only three, but hey, I spend a lot of my time selling other people’s books instead of reading them. And also some time judging book covers and sniffing book pages and anyway let’s get into it–

The Ending Writes Itself by Evelyn Clarke

An April new release I had the privilege of downloading as a free audiobook. The author, Evelyn Clarke, is not a real person, but rather the pseudonym for the combined writing efforts of V.E. Schwab and Cat Clarke. An appropriate mis-direct given the novel’s premise:

Six mid-list genre fiction writers are invited to stay on the remote private island of one smash mystery writer Arthur Fletch’s remote private island off the coast of Scotland. Expecting to rub elbows with publishing’s most successful novelist, the writers are instead faced with Fletch’s agent and editor, and are issued a challenge– finish Arthur’s final book, which was left abandoned after his sudden and accidental drowning, and win millions, as well as a book deal beyond their wildest dreams.

What a premise! I dove in, eager to enjoy a spin on And Then There Were None, or perhaps an ensemble murder-solving caper involving the unfinished manuscript as clues gathered to reveal Fletch’s death wasn’t an accident after all…the possibilities were intriguing.

The result was disappointing.

Whether two authors are better than one is put to the test (and fails) both within the narrative and without. The novel was twisty, but never played fair, and red herring after red herring fell flat with a climax centered around critiquing the shallow state of the publishing world, while also singing its praises.

The characters were the highlight, certainly, and I enjoyed listening to their snappy dialogue and internal reflections on what drives writers to complete their work, but I was left with an overall sense of letdown.

Clementine: Book One by Tillie Walden

It’s been too long since I sat down with a good graphic novel– and read it in a day. This one was right up my alley for many reasons, not least because it’s an addition to The Walking Dead comics series, which featured heavily in my undergrad thesis project. The book (one of three) is written and illustrated by award-winning graphic novelist Tillie Walden, whom my co-worker Rowan reveres.

The story picks up after the end of The Walking Dead video games, which introduced the character of Clementine as a young girl. Now a teenager, sans both her foot and her family, she strikes off on her own. Early in her solo journey, an Amish community takes her in and gets her back on her feet (literally, by proving her with a prosthetic). She ventures off with young Amos, who is embarking on Rumspriga, an Amish tradition continuing even after the zombie apocalypse. They travel to Vermont, where they encounter other teenagers trying to shore up a mountain ski village for their community, and the plot thickens (and unravels) from there.

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Do you sell hot porridge?

This sounds like a question for the café, hold on while I—

You already asked the cafe? And they said no. So you thought maybe the bookstore had picked up the tradition. I see.

Well, I’m sorry to say the bookstore does not sell hot porridge. I would try the orphanage from Oliver Twist instead.

Where is your fairy porn section?

Oh, hearing the words “fairy porn1” at my workplace was not on my bookstore bingo card, but…

Romance, fantasy, and romantasy are all included in the fiction section. Look for titles that sound something like A Kingdom of Mist and Mayhem or He’s a 400 Year Old Magic Creature and She’s a 17 Year Old Child: Does That Count as Pedophilia?.

May I bring my snake inside?

Technically, the sign on the door only specifies that no dogs are allowed inside. But no, your snake cannot come in. No, not even if it stays in your pocket— you just walk around with a snake in your pocket? Wait, no, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.

I don’t get paid enough for this…

Can I have this for free?

Hey, thanks for asking! Always better to ask than assume, right? Assume makes an…anyway—

No, you cannot have that, or anything that’s marked with a price label or nailed to the floor for free.

Actually, I guess you can have this bookmark. It’s good marketing.

Would you like a book with that? No? Okay, well, better to ask than assume…

Have you seen my wife?

No. Yes. Maybe? Was she the woman with the blonde hair and the nice blue blouse that just went into the bathroom?

You don’t know what your wife is wearing, got it. Well, it’s not a big store, I’m sure you’ll find her.

No, I can’t tell her you’re waiting outside if I still don’t know who she is— and he’s already walking away.

Next customer please; how can I help?

Elizabeth’s Detective Diary, May 20th, 2025

When I said I wanted more action, moving from a sleepy suburban bookstore to the middle of the city, I didn’t think I’d get my wish so soon. It was only a matter of time, I suppose.

It all began this morning, when I was going about my daily rounds, restocking the inventory and staring blankly at the books until my latte kicked in, when I picked up one of our boxed scented candles. The box felt suspiciously light, so I opened the lid and…there it wasn’t.

The candle was missing.

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I hurried to check the other boxes on display— empty, empty, and empty. The game was afoot!

I checked every overstock shelf, the gaps behind displays, and even under tables in the cafe, to no avail. The candles were nowhere to be found in the store, which left me with two options: 1) someone took them, or 2) the candles rolled themselves out of their boxes and right on out of the store, Toy-Story-style. There was only one way to find out which possibility would prevail: scour the security camera feed.

I zoomed in on the display table, starting at opening time the previous day, and set the recording to 8x speed, waiting for a candle to move…

There!

No, that’s just someone smell-testing and putting it back…

Wait, there!

No, that’s just me rearranging the display because it was symmetrical but not symmetrical enough…

No, no, no…

Hold on— what in Poirot’s name is this?

At approximately 13:05 p.m., a female-presenting, white-passing, shifty-looking woman (literally, she’s shifting constantly from foot to foot), late-fifty-to-early-sixty, with short-ish half-bleached hair, and enormous Kardashian-esque sunglasses, carrying an even enormous-er tote bag, entered the building through cafe door, and walked over to bookstore.

She pretended to browse the Mother’s Day table display for approximately two minutes before stuffing four scented candles in her tote bag. The Shoplifter wandered behind the cafe to the bargain section, and then exited through the cafe door at 13:12 p.m., making her escape.

She’s strategic, this Shoplifter, I’ll give her that. Leaving the empty boxes was a nice touch— it left us none the wiser for almost twenty-four hours. But still, she’s no match for a crime-solving mind such as mine!

I’ve put the whole squad on high-alert. If the Shoplifter makes another sticky-fingered attempt, we’ll be ready to catch her in the act!

Elizabeth’s Detective Diary, May 22nd, 2025

The Shoplifter has struck again! She returned at roughly 18:00 tonight, using the same entrance, and carrying the same tote bag– but this time, she had a shoulder bag as well. More pieces are added to the game board…

She concealed four journals and a pencil pouch in the shoulder bag, before being confronted by one of my trusty deputies, Rowan, who informed the Shoplifter that she is banned from the store for theft. Rowan asked to see the contents of the Shoplifter’s bag, and the Shoplifter opened the tote bag, but not the shoulder bag. She then quickly ducked by Rowan, bolting through the cafe door.

She’s bold, and she’s slippery, hitting us twice in as many days. It’s left me no choice but to call in the NHPD for help. I shared the evidence I’ve collected so far, as well as my theories about the Shoplifter’s criminal tendencies.

After watching twelve seasons of Criminal Minds during the COVID-19 pandemic, you might call me something of an expert. I told the officers who made the police report that we are certainly looking for a compulsive pathological shoplifter.

Based on the randomness of the items stolen, and the short timespan between thefts, she’s either foolish or she’s driven by something caution cannot control. Ooh that was good, I should pitch that as a line of dialogue for the next Knives Out movie. Returning to the case at hand, now that we have a handle on her M.O., from the Dutch Moodë Foperation, we may be able to avoid another theft.

Elizabeth’s Detective Diary, May 25th, 2025

I’m writing this from the backseat of a police car, so forgive the handwriting. This Shoplifter business has taken a turn for the extreme.

She returned today at approximately 12:27, and beelined for the tote bag display. I noticed her immediately, but instead of intercepting, I told Chloe to keep an eye on the Shoplifter’s whereabouts while I called the police.

First, the Shoplifter approached the jotter pen display and cleared two and a half shelves into the tote bag. Then, she returned to the stationary bookcase and added four more journals. At last, she approached the art supply spinner and added a large sketchbook and a colored pencil art set to the bag.

Keeping to her pattern, the Shoplifter attempted to leave by looping behind the cafe and exiting through the cafe door, but was intercepted by both Chloe and the cafe manager, B. They successfully recovered the merchandise, but the Shoplifter escaped through the door.

In the aftermath, I’ve pieced together a timeline of the events that followed from several sources:

When I called the police to report the theft-in-progress, a lieutenant overheard the report, and already aware of the two theft reports I’d filed, decided to come downtown and deal with this himself. Surely, he strode out of his office and said something to the other officers like “let’s ride,” and then either took off or put on a pair of sunglasses.

Meanwhile, as the Shoplifter fled the bookstore, B pursued her on-foot to alert the police to the Shoplifter’s location when they arrived on the scene. The Shoplifter cut down a side street, and then an alley– which proved to be her downfall. The alley was a dead-end, and by the time she doubled-back, the police were closing in. Three squad cars and an officer on a bicycle blocked her exit, and Officer Bicycle made the arrest– much to the deflation of Lieutenant Sunglasses’s ego.

Which brings me to my current situation: on a ride-along with Officer Bicycle to identify the Shoplifter. The backseat of a police car is not how I pictured it would be. On TV, it’s always the same as any civilian vehicle, but in reality the “seat” is made of hard grey plastic, suspiciously similar to the material of a baby changing table.

I suppose it makes sense, you never know what…substances might end up back here, and it would be pretty expensive to reupholster the entire backseat every time a Drunk & Disorderly expelled something back here. Officer Bicycle is telling me to sit back down now, apparently hovering above the seat is “not safe.”

We’re closing in now on the corner where Lieutenant Sunglasses is holding the Shoplifter in another car. As we approach, he’ll step out onto the sidewalk with her, and I’ll identify her through the one-way tinted window. Here we go…

Elizabeth’s Detective Diary, May 26th, 2025

The case is closed, and it’s time to hang my imaginary deerstalker back on its invisible hook. I pitched myself to Lieutenant Sunglasses as a paid investigative consultant, sort of like a Shawn Spencer situation, but he said I was better suited for the bookstore. The Shoplifter has been arrested and charged with larceny– I doubt I’ll ever see her again. I have these notes to remember the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of solving the case.

And the list of her stolen merchandise, which reads as an oddly self-reflective poem:

The Shoplifter’s “Receipt”

Mom Guilt

Sage That Shit

Calm the Fuck Down

Curious Cat

Persian Pears

Music Lovers

Wanderlust Pencil Pouch

Deluxe Colored Pencil Set

Celestial Tote Bag

Premium Sketch Book

Move, I’m Gay

Thanks, It’s Vintage

Oopsie Daisy

March has come and gone, in like a lion, spent a week as a lamb, and then sprouted claws and a mane again before being sheared once more for weather too warm even for a lamb to feel comfortable. Through it all, I was reading (big shock), and since you, dear readers, have kindly spent real, if not physical, cash to gain access to more of my musings and absurdities, I am here to share my thoughts and reflections on the books I encountered over the last month.

First, the bad news: the books I started, but could not finish. At the ripe old age of almost-twenty-four, I’ve come to realize life is too short to force yourself to read books you don’t like. Thus, I employ an 80-page rule– if a book hasn’t hooked me after eighty pages, then I’m giving it away to someone who might like it better. This month, I abandoned three books: Starry & Restless by Julia Cooke, How to Solve Your Own Murder by Kristin Perrin, and The Undead by Svetlana Satchkova.

Starry and Restless

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During my first holiday season as a bookseller, I would often get overwhelmed by the fast-paced demand of the job. To help put things in perspective, one of my coworkers used to say “we sell books, not kidneys.” I understood her point, but the metaphor felt a tad specific– I wonder about my coworker’s prior retail career, and whether it involved more black market organs than my own.

While the book business may not involve life-saving measures or leaving people in hotel bath tubs filled with ice, I have noticed some remarkable parallels to the trappings of television medical dramas.

I make no claims about real emergency rooms, of course, but I’ll be damned if there aren’t a few days a week when I feel like I’m living in an episode of HBO’s latest medical drama hit, The Pitt.

And so, for the myriad of Hollywood executives in my subscriber base, please enjoy an excerpt from the next high-octane, Emmy-winning, true-to-life, workplace drama: The Stacks.

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INT. BOOKSTORE SALES FLOOR - MORNING

ELIZABETH, tall and dressed like an un-sexy librarian, stands behind the cash wrap.

THEO, good-humored and fashionable, has just arrived on shift. He pulls a lanyard over his head.

THEO

Morning-- how’s it been?

ELIZABETH

Toddler pulled all the board books off the shelf. Dad bolted with the kid before I saw the damage.

THEO

Oh boy.

ELIZABETH

Just another day in paradise.

A MIDDLE AGED MAN approaches the desk. Theo and Elizabeth switch places as Elizabeth gathers her phone and coffee cup.

THEO

Hi there, how can I help?

MIDDLE AGED MAN

I’m looking for a book.

THEO

What’s the title?

MIDDLE AGED MAN

Oh-- no, I mean, I need a recommendation for my wife’s birthday.

THEO

Okay, great! What does your wife like to read?

MIDDLE AGED MAN

I don’t really know. Oh, uh, she was reading a book when we were on vacation. It was blue.

Elizabeth and Theo share a look.

ELIZABETH

Call a code.

Theo picks up the phone and presses the intercom button.

MIDDLE AGED MAN

Fiction. I think. Maybe.

SAVANNAH, peppy and friendly, walks over.

SAVANNAH

I hear we have a birthday coming up?

MIDDLE AGED MAN

My wife’s.

SAVANNAH

That’s great!

MIDDLE AGED MAN

If you say so.

SAVANNAH

Oh-kay...let’s go take a look at staff picks.

Savannah leads the customer away from the register.

ELIZABETH

Yikes.

THEO

I don’t know about you, but Blue Cover Maybe Fiction was my favorite book of last year.

SKYLAR, cool and calm, approaches the cash wrap before Elizabeth can leave.

SKYLAR

Hey boss, UPS is two minutes out.

ELIZABETH

Prep receiving.

We follow as Elizabeth and Skylar rush to the receiving desk.

SKYLAR

Here we go.

A UPS delivery driver enters, pushing a full hand-truck of boxes. He dumps the boxes on the floor and leaves.

Skylar jumps right in, sorting the boxes into piles.

ELIZABETH

Assessment?

SKYLAR

Some ripped corners could be an indication of water deterioration, possibly internal damage to the books. Wait a second--

He separates out a larger box.

SKYLAR

Non-book shipment.

ELIZABETH

Good catch. Open it up and look for an invoice. Call Jess up to help with shelving.

SKYLAR

You got it, boss.

Elizabeth starts back toward the cash wrap, until--

AN ELDERLY WOMAN appears.

ELIZABETH

AH! Sorry-- you surprised me. Can I help--

The elderly woman shoves a book in Elizabeth’s face.

ELDERLY WOMAN

How much is this?

ELIZABETH

Let’s check...

Elizabeth reaches for the book. The woman will not let go.

ELIZABETH

I’ll just...take this...thank you--

Elizabeth finally wrenches the book free. She flips it over.

CLOSE UP on the price, printed on the back.

ELIZABETH

$29.99, but we give 15% off hardcovers, so it would be about $27.00.

ELDERLY WOMAN

$27.00 for a book! Ugh!

ELIZABETH

I hear you. Unfortunately, we don’t set the prices.

We give the discount to try and offset the cost--

The elderly woman starts to wander away.

ELIZABETH

--and you’re leaving. Okay.

SKYLAR (O.S.)

Hey, boss!

Elizabeth pivots back to receiving. Skylar is still unpacking boxes, while JESS, capable and energetic, is loading books onto a rolling cart.

SKYLAR

We got a huge restock of secret books.

ELIZABETH

Let’s get them wrapped up. Jess, you’re with me.

Elizabeth starts pushing the shelving cart, while Jess holds onto the side, and they rush around to the cash wrap.

ELIZABETH

Clear the counter!

Savannah and Theo hurry to make space on the counter as Elizabeth and Jess stop the cart at the cash wrap.

ELIZABETH

This is all you, Jess.

JESS

But...I’ve never wrapped on my own before.

ELIZABETH

You’re ready. And we’ll be right here with you.

SAVANNAH

You got this.

Jess takes a breath, and gets to work.

Jess pulls a sheet of craft paper off of the gift wrap roller and lays it on the table.

Elizabeth hands her the book.

Jess puts it down carefully in the middle of the paper. She folds one side over, and then the other.

JESS

Tape.

Savannah pulls a piece of scotch tape off the roll.

Jess tapes the paper down.

ELIZABETH

Be confident, decisive.

Jess folds in the corners, and then folds the excess paper down. Elizabeth hands her another piece of tape.

Jess tapes the paper down, and flips the package over. So far so good.

JESS

Stamp.

Theo hands Jess a stamp.

Jess inhales. She pushes down on the stamp.

CLOSE UP on the bookstore’s logo, imprinted in neat black ink on the paper.

Jess exhales. It’s perfect.

ELIZABETH

Good work, bookseller. Now on to the next.

You might not imagine an indie bookstore in a small east coast city to be a bastion of Hollywood Glitterati– and you’d be right, it’s not. We do, however, have the occasional celebrity sighting; as it turns out, famous people drink coffee and read books, just like us lowly unglamorous folk.

To date, I have encountered four famous actors, three bestselling authors, and one former world leader. Obviously this makes me an expert on interacting with the pretty and powerful, and I am so very kind as to share my wisdom and experience with you.

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So, without further ado, here is the definitive ten-step guide to interacting with celebrities in the wild:

Step 1: Notice you are in proximity of someone cooler and more successful than you ever will be.

You should feel a change in the air, like when the wind shifts in Mary Poppins. Someone important and potentially British is approaching– prepare yourself. A hush may fall, as people nearby also recognize this very interesting and important person, who, despite having previously existed as only pixels on your phone screen or words on a page in that book you loved, is actually made of flesh and blood and has some business to attend to, blessedly adjacent to your puny and insignificant life.

Step 2: Freeze like a rabbit hoping not to be seen by a predator.

Naturally, though you’ve spotted them, you’re not yet prepared to be seen by this symbol of class and accomplishment– maybe you’re grabbing coffee after a run in your sweaty work-out clothes, maybe you’re wearing those pants that you kind of hate but haven’t shaken off the ennui to donate them, maybe you’ve just finished unpacking a hand-truck load of cardboard boxes and are covered in bits of packing material and ink. In any case, it’s best to freeze, and try not to look too excited. Celebrities can’t smell fear, but they can sense excitement– and they will bolt.

Step 3: Quietly Google the celebrity to make sure it is actually who you think it is.

We’ve all been told (perhaps only in our own minds) that we look like this famous person or that famous person, and while oftentimes it’s delusional flattery, you wouldn’t want to accidentally talk to a normal unremarkable person. I shudder to think of it.

Thus, it is imperative to take a moment to quickly and quietly Google the celebrity in question, perhaps tacking on the current year to your search in case the difference in internet images and reality isn’t due to airbrushing but (gasp!) human aging. Once you’re decently confident you’re looking at that actor from that thing, or that author from that dust jacket photo, or that Prime Minister from that scandal, move on to step four.

Step 4: Go about your business while keeping tabs on the celebrity’s every move.

In keeping with what we covered in step two, maintaining an illusion of casual normalcy is key to preventing the celebrity from noticing your attention too early. I recommend reading the back of a book upside down, or typing a random selection of keys into your phone until you accidentally call 9-1-1 and then have to drop your phone right into your cup of iced vanilla matcha.

Step 5: Use incredibly subtle hand motions to alert your coworkers/friends/nearby strangers to the celebrity’s presence and location.

Personally, I’m partial to the synchronized eye and eyebrow signal– brows up and down in rapid succession to get the target’s attention, then lower left brow while cutting both eyes in the direction of the celebrity, repeat with increasing exaggeration until the message is received. Other options include: military-style hand gestures (bogey on your six, go-go-go!); if you’re trained in ballet you can direct an arabesque in the direction of the celebrity; or there’s the classic hoot and point, which I understand is popular in France.

Step 6: Stake out your territory so that you will be in the perfect position to interact with the celebrity.

If, like me, you’re in the position of employee, the ideal territory to co-opt is the cash register. They have to pass you on their way out, and you get to judge – excuse me, I mean ring out – their chosen purchases.

If you encounter a famous person on equal footing, you can always wait until they drop something so you can pick it up, or “accidentally” bump into them, or even wait until there’s enough space on the floor nearby and fake a heart attack, in the hopes that they will jump to your rescue.

Step 7: Maintain the illusion that you don’t know who they are, but be super, extra, stunningly charming when you do finally interact.

Yeah, yeah, you’re charming with everyone, no matter who they are– but come on, it’s time for the big guns. Eat as many breath mints as it takes to make it seem like you’ve never even seen a cup of coffee. Deploy your best, all-time-hits list of jokes. Make eye contact, smile, and never give any indication that your stomach is full of bees and you might be about to pee your pants or faint or both.

Step 8: Hold in your excitement until they’re out the door.

Are they gone? Really gone? Not still within sight of the windows, or possibly coming back for the thing they dropped?

Okay, now you can giggle uncontrollably and pee and throw up and pass out.

Step 9: Tell everyone you meet for the rest of the day that you talked to a famous person and they didn’t, slyly asserting your superiority and dominance.

“Oh, my day was nothing special. Although…I met [insert famous person’s name, and that thing they’re known for, and that other thing in case the first reference is lost on your conversation partner, but come on, what self-respecting person hasn’t seen 13 Going on 30?] today. Yeah, we ran into each other at the bookstore and chatted a bit. [Famous Person] was very nice, and so down to Earth. How was your day?”

Step 10: Add another small detail to the story every time you tell it until all retellings involve saving the celebrity’s life or coolly turning down an invitation to sail on their yacht for the summer.

This is very important, because it will give you years of longevity out of a thirty-second incident. It’s a great ice-breaker anecdote for new people, and a fun way to spice up conversation with people who know the real boring normal you– “Oh, I didn’t mention that he offered to send my manuscript to his publisher? That’s so funny. Of course I said no, I don’t want success to just be handed to me– where’s the grit?”

Anyway, Jennifer Garner is my best friend1 and while she practically begged to finance and star in the pilot of the bookstore sitcom I’ve been writing, I told her I couldn’t possibly abandon my zero-profit Substack career for a glamorous Hollywood life. Besides, I wouldn’t want a professional disagreement to ruin our very close friendship– a friendship founded on a mutual appreciation for greeting cards with gnomes on them, which we all know is the deepest possible bond two people can share.

For most of my life, I have been a townie in New Haven, a city known nationwide for the ivy league university whose name rhymes with “snail.”

Snail University produced five United States Presidents, over sixty Nobel laureates, countless influential writers, architects, artists, and thinkers. Snail University is also home to some of the most obnoxious, unaware, privileged young people I have ever encountered (and I’ve lived in Connecticut for all but four years of my life).

I’m not pointing an accusatory finger at all Snail undergraduates. Rather, my sample size is limited to the Snail students who frequent the bookstore where I work on a regular basis. Even then, not all of them are entitled jerks, but the worst portion is the loudest, the most memorable, and casts the larger population in a very poor light.

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Take, for example, the young man in a Snail Lacrosse zip-up, who came up to the counter one day.

“Hey, can I get the Wifi password?”

“It should just be an open network– the one that says ‘guest’.”

“Yeah, but what about the private one?”

“It’s private.”

“But what’s the password?”

“It’s private.”

“Yeah, but can you tell me the password?”

“No, it’s not for public use.”

“So it’s just for you guys?”

“Yes.”

“But can’t I just use it?”

Cue my fist, bypassing the encryption on his teeth.

Take, for another, the young woman who decided to take her telehealth therapy appointment in the bookstore, on FaceTime, with no headphones. She sat right down, cross-legged on the floor in front of the science and nature section, and loudly discussed every one of her life’s problems for all to hear. As someone who went to therapy during college, I know it can be hard to find a private space to have an appointment. Clearly, this young woman is on another plane of giving-a-fuck, because the crowded bookstore floor was just about dead last on my list of contingencies for talking through my mental health issues. I wish her all the best, and I wish better for her therapist.

Take the group of five, who were leisurely continuing their “study session” (aka gossiping with their laptops open) despite the fact that the store was closing in five minutes. I suppose they had collective short-term memory loss from the announcements my colleagues made warning that we would be closing in half an hour, then fifteen minutes, and now five. Only after the clock struck seven and my coworker approached their table to politely ask them to pack up, did one young Snailie say:

“Oh, you’re closing?”

“Yes. We’re closed, actually. So if you could please make your way to the door, I’d appreciate it.”

An exaggerated sigh. “I guess we’ll join the homeless people outside.”

The other Snailies laughed. I had to actively hold myself back from marching over and slapping each of them upside the head.

Take the up-and-coming political pundits, who like to hold “office hours” in the cafe and monopolize tables from anyone and everyone waiting to just enjoy their latte for a few minutes. These young men – sorry, I can’t even type that seriously – these boys in their khaki pants and quarter-zips, who like to recline in their chairs and hold forth on the state of the country. Their opinions are always objective, factual, and couldn’t possibly be biased or influenced by their particular perspectives as white, wealthy, cis-het, males with an early receding hairline yet a biological inability to grow facial hair beyond a pervy little moustache. No, no, they have all the answers, but none of the solutions. Trump won because Harris was weak and abrasive and the problem with the Democrats is their economic policy and honestly it’s not that bad because their trust funds will be fine, coup or no coup. If one of their chairs happened to have its legs kicked out from underneath it, I promise I’m just a clumsy woman who wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Oops.

Take the gaggles of undergrads with their uncooked brains who like to block all the walkways in the store while they speak a decibel level I didn’t realize was possible while also maintaining an unbothered vocal fry.

“Oh my god, hiiiiii!”

[waifish hugs and air kisses all around]

“I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“It’s been a minute, yeahhhh. Um, lowkey I’ve been like, drowning.”

“I feel that in my soul. But we should have lunch. Or coffee. Like anything.”

“Oh, yes, definitely. I’m just like, juggling so many applications right now– like, it’s kind of insane how you have to start summer-job searching in fucking February.”

“Oh my godddd, I know, like, I interned at a lab on campus last summer but like, I want to branch out, you know, so I’m thinking I get an apartment in Boston or New York this summer– or my dad has a studio in D.C. I could use.”

“Okay, vibes, vibes for real. I have a standing invitation with a firm in the city, but like, I just turned 21 – [tongue out, hair tuck, tiny scream] – right?? I mean, your 20s are for living, you know, so like maybe I’ll just say fuck it and go to Amsterdam or Paris or something.”

“Okay but like, that’s vibes.”

Transcribing this conversation just made me simultaneously itchy and also slightly ill, so I do apologize if reading it induced a similar response in you– but it’s like tasting something bad, it’s meaningless unless you force others to suffer with you.

Take the Snail undergrads– seriously, take them. I can’t be held responsible for my actions if I have to listen to one more word.

Everyone wants a cozy bookstore, but not everyone is prepared to face the necessary reality of what makes the atmosphere so charming: close quarters, full shelves, tight corners. And, as an unavoidable consequence, the occasional accidental physical contact with the posterior region.

It has happened to all of us at one time or another. You’re browsing the mind and body section, and get so lost in your perusal of the titles and covers that you lose all awareness of your own body’s position relative to the bookseller going about their business of schlepping boxes back and forth or shelving newly arrived titles, and you back up at the same moment their arm is swinging past and boom. Butt-to-hand contact has been made.

Apologies all around, some sheepish laughter, perhaps a late-night cringe at the memory a few hours later, but at the end of the day it’s forgotten– by the customer, at least.

For booksellers, it’s not so easy. The potential for butt contact is a daily hazard of the job, never as acknowledged as the far more remote possibilities of falling down the stairs, or pulling a muscle by lifting a box with your back instead of your knees.

Today, I’m breaking the silence which has reigned for too long in bookstores across the nation, making a public and profound apology to all the people whose butts I have accidentally touched— or, to all the people whom I have accidentally touched with my butt.

I’m sorry to the middle-aged woman who looked like she would be scandalized by even the word “buttress” who decided to stand directly (and completely silently) behind me while I was crouched down to rearrange the kids’ finger puppets into their fluffy army formation. When I stood up, my butt bumped her clutch purse, and she looked at me like I’d just tried to rob her.

I’m sorry to the UPS delivery guy who didn’t realize I had come back with his daily thank-you lemonade as he was finishing unloading the hand truck and both booty-checked me and bestowed a yellow patch on my nice white slacks.

I’m sorry to the tens of people who were doing just what you did before, getting lost in the browse, and didn’t notice me coming in hot, unaware of how far my noodle arms can swing, and accidentally clipped their cabooses.

I’m not sorry to my coworker and friend, Chloe, who enables my tendency to make jokes which I’d rather not repeat to our HR representative, and who always puts her butt in the way when I’m trying to open the supply drawer behind the register. I apologized once, to which she responded “Oh Elizabeth, you can bump me in the butt anytime,” so now I just let the handle whack her in the rear.

I’m not sorry to the scruffy man who came in and used our phone repeatedly without asking and then called me a bitch when I politely asked him to put the receiver down and leave. The doors of our building were designed by Louis Kahn and tend to close quickly, so if the door happened to literally hit him in the ass on the way out, I can’t say I regret it.

I’m not sorry to the old man who either couldn’t hear or didn’t care that he was farting his way through the bookstore, and, while my manager Daria was innocently rearranging the bottom shelf of the politics and economics section, he let one rip right in her face. She stood up and walked straight out the door– I wouldn’t have blamed her if she didn’t come back at all.

So, book-buyers beware, the next time you find yourself yearning for a cozy trip to your local bookseller, consider keeping things clenched.

I am not a parent, but I am endlessly entertained by those absurd, semi-logical small beings we call children.

I can understand why some people don’t enjoy children– they can be loud, demanding, and their still-developing brains are hard to reason with. I enjoy kids, but I’m especially happy to be at a stage in my life where I can be in “auntie-mode” with my few friends who are parents. I get to enjoy them when they’re rested and cuddly and happy and then hand them right back when they start to fuss or cry or stink.

The kids section of the bookstore functions in a similar way. I get to observe the adorable antics of young readers, maybe have a circular conversation about animal facts, and then send them on their way with a new book or a toy that will probably be broken by the end of the day.

To that end, here are a few highlights from my recent interactions with my tiniest literary friends:

The Inquisitor

During this most recent winter holiday rush, a young reader of about five years old came in with his parents. He picked out his chosen book within a minute, and while his parents continued to shop for gifts, he started asking questions.

“What’s this?” He wondered, reaching above his head to put a tin of mints shaped like a Nintendo controller on the counter.

“It’s a tin of mints shaped like a video game controller.”

“Why?”

“People like mints, and the design is nostalgic.”

“What’s nose-tall-jick?”

“Have you ever seen something that reminded you of when you were younger?”

“No.”

I guess I wasn’t particularly nostalgic at age five either.

“I have to help the next customer, but you can ask me more questions later, okay?”

To his credit, The Inquisitor paused his questioning long enough for me to help some customers who actually own wallets before he came back.

“What’s this?” He asked, this time shoving an Elf-on-the-Shelf shaped box of candy onto the counter.

“Candy in an Elf-on-the-Shelf box.”

“Does it work after you touch it?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t break the box.”

“But it’s an Elf-on-the-Shelf. When you touch it, it loses its magic.”

“Oh, yeah, but this isn’t a real Elf-on-the-Shelf. It’s a box shaped like one.”

“It says Elf-on-the-Shelf. And it looks like an Elf-on-the-Shelf…but it’s not actually an Elf-on-the-Shelf?”

“Not really. In the sense of what is a ‘real’ Elf-on-the-Shelf.”

“So what is real?”

Touche, Magritte.

The Avian Allies

One afternoon, a very charming double-date walked into the store: two moms and two daughters. The moms struck me as old friends, lucky enough to have daughters not only around the same age, but who seemed as close as they were. The moms went off to have coffee in the cafe, while the girls took painstaking care to choose not only a selection of books, but also which matching puppets they would get.

The girls read each puppet’s tag, taking in the bite-size animal facts included with the manatee, the poodle moth, the lop rabbit, and finally decided on the great snowy owl. An excellent choice, if I do say so myself, considering the great snowy owl puppets have a special swivel stick inside to turn the head 360 degrees. One owl for each girl.

The girls asked me to write their names on the tags, so they would know which owl belonged to which girl, having already formed a particular attachment to their respective owls.

“What are you going to name your owls?” I asked.

One girl piped up right away. “I’m going to name mine Cutie!”

“What about yours?” I looked at the other. “What’s their name?”

She nodded with sage certainty. “Buffalo.”

Let it be known now, far and wide, that I claim the rights to the Cutie and Buffalo franchise, when they inevitably become the next sensation in children’s literature and entertainment.

The Fashion Icon

On a quiet fall morning, a toddler and her father came in. The father made a beeline for the books, unaware that his daughter had stopped immediately, wide-eyeing me from where her head didn’t even clear the edge of the check-out counter.

“Hello.” I said. “Can I help you find something?”

She did not respond. Instead, she kept direct eye contact as she reached down and pinched the string of something hanging across her shoulder with two fingers and lifted it slowly, steadily, until a tiny little bag was hanging next to her face.

By now, her father noticed the delay. He came back over and smiled at me apologetically.

“We just got a new purse, and we’re very excited about it.”

“It’s very nice.” I said to the girl. “What do you keep in your purse?”

This toddler looked at me as though I was poor, ignorant, frumpy Anne Hathaway and she, as Meryl Streep, was about to explain the well-oiled machine of the fashion industry to me.

Then, still keeping eye contact, she pulled out a single, slightly lint-flecked baby carrot. She snapped off a big, crunchy bite, and pivoted gracefully on her heel, leaving me to contemplate my small-minded approach to both handbags and root vegetables.

God, I wish I was her.

The Author

As we all know, parents are not allowed to choose a favorite child. This rule does not apply to booksellers. My favorite child, by far, is an aspiring writer and illustrator, whose favorite place in the world is the bookstore.

Over the summer, a microburst thunderstorm knocked the power out at her house, and inspired a spark of creativity. She wrote a book, six pages long, about her own library of books– how they were growing and keeping each other company and how they were scared when the power went out, but how, when she found a flashlight and read each one during the storm, the books felt safe and loved.

She wrote and illustrated the book with Crayola markers on printer paper, and bound the pages herself with carefully placed staples. She showed me the book on her next visit to the bookstore after the storm, and beamed while I read it aloud to my fellow booksellers.

When I thanked her for sharing the book with us, and handed it back to her, she refused to take it.

“I wrote it for the bookstore.” She told me.

My colleague thanked her again (I was busy wiping my teary eyes), and we displayed the book proudly by the register. Before she left, my coworker bought her a sketchbook and some more markers, and we told her to keep writing and illustrating.

Many a great writer began this way, scribbling in the dark, dreaming of the light finally shining on the pages, waiting to be read and loved.

When I tell people I work in an independent bookstore, they often respond with iterations of the same sentiment: “Oh, what a dream job that must be!”

I have been in the book business for almost two years, across many different capacities at two different independent bookstores. I have been a bookseller, a backlist buyer, a children’s literature specialist, a receiver, a bookselling supervisor, and soon, assistant bookstore manager. So many of the assumptions I made about working in the book business were startlingly different from the reality I now live every day. Some better, some worse, and some somewhere in the middle.

So, aspiring booksellers beware: the realities of working in an independent bookstore are not quite the dream you may be entertaining.

Let’s get our facts straight, shall we?

No, we don’t spend our days sitting behind the counter, reading.

Firstly, we don’t sit.

Unless, like me, you’re often rearranging the baskets of finger puppets, which is best accomplished while criss-cross-applesauce on the floor. I have a very specific method of arranging my finger puppet friends, grouping them so that their bright colors are alternating to draw attention, and situating them so that their cute little beaded eyes are looking up at you. Thus, my small army of plush minions is gathered. We ride at dawn. Be afraid.

Anyway, we don’t sit. We stand, we walk loops around the store checking to make sure the shelves are neat and dusted and alphabetized and we do not browse on company time for books that we would like to read. Definitely not.

Some of us spend several hours a day lifting, unpacking, and collapsing the small mountains of cardboard boxes filled with merchandise that UPS delivers every day. In exchange for sweating through several nice blouses, we get to experience that wonderful Christmas/Birthday/Anniversary feeling of opening a box and finding something cool inside. We get to see new books on release day before anyone else– touch the cover, flip through the pages, sniff the paper, and all the other slightly pervy book-lover’s impulses.

Mostly, we stand behind the cash register, with a smile and a friendly greeting, ready to ring out purchases, look up books in our inventory, take special orders for the books we don’t have, answer the phone, gift wrap anything from books to ornaments to portable record players.

We do our reading off the clock, after we’ve put our whole paycheck back into the store, buying a stack of books with cool covers or new editions of books we’ve already read to add to our bedside/couchside/closetside/lifeside stacks of novels and memoirs and poetry and prose and hardcovers and paperbacks that we will certainly, absolutely, without-a-doubt make time to read next.

No, we don’t have every book ever written available for purchase today.

“We only have so much space, and we are not a used bookstore, so we do prioritize new titles and bestsellers.”

…

“Yes, I understand it was a childhood favorite of yours. And it was published when?”

…

“1946. Sure. Explains the racially questionable cover art.”

…

“Okay, I can order it for you– oh, just visiting for the weekend. Okay.”

…

“You’ll get it from Amazon instead. Sure, yeah. Thanks so much for telling me. Out loud. In this independent bookstore.”

…

“Sorry, my hand sometimes spasms in such a way that my middle finger just gets stuck like that. Yes, shoving it in your face helps relax the muscles.”

Yes, the staff are a small, close-knit group of nerds.

My fellow booksellers are some of my very favorite people in the world.

There’s our manager, who describes herself as a human equivalent of Daria (which is the name I will use for her hereafter) from the eponymous cartoon series, and takes care of both the store and the staff with a precision and capability I deeply admire. I think she may also be part-magpie, because she cannot help herself when it comes to any small sticker, pen, or notebook with a cool skeleton, snake, or other semi-gothic natural design. She’s a badass single-mom, and an understanding boss, and I should be so lucky to resemble her in any way.

Our lead bookseller, whom I will call Chloé, is an international woman of intrigue with quadruple citizenship and absolutely fantastic fashion sense. She is helpful to a fault – I have often caught her staying late, digging through our overstock of greeting cards in the basement just to find the perfect retirement greeting for a customer – but her kindness has earned her a sizeable fan club who ask after her every time they’re faced with me (sorry to disappoint) at the register instead of her. Heaven help the poor soul who wrongs her, for they would face the wrath of not only the bookstore staff, but a few elderly people who know their way around a cane.

The part-time staff consist of:

A published poet (we will call him Theo) whose stories I could happily listen to for an entire shift instead of, you know, doing my job. Theo is a gentle, competent, thoughtful supporter of artists everywhere (not least his partner, who blows into the bookstore on a cloud of creativity, and reminds me of the most fabulous magical characters from a Miyazaki movie).

A part-time library contractor, writer, and jack-of-all-trades, hailing originally from California, and providing a much-needed chilled out energy when the point of sale system crashes, someone trashes the bathroom, or an acrylic display cracks into pieces on the floor. We will call him Skylar.

A part-time Starbucks supervisor, whom we will call Rowan, is a full-time manga reader, and provider of the best dry one-liners you’ve ever heard, as well as endless photos of their dog, Banana, who seems to chronically be eating things she shouldn’t.

A linguist and fluent Italian-speaker whom we will call Savannah, is genuine, conscientious, and eager to learn. We hired her even though we technically didn’t have any openings because she was just so damn charming– what an excellent decision that was.

A masters student in Library Sciences, whom we will refer to as Jess, is our most recent hire, but was a natural from the beginning. She’s curious, quick and good-humored, and will make some library someday very lucky.

I have too many stories about each of my esteemed colleagues to fit into one essay, so if I haven’t scared you off already, you should remember their pseudonyms for future tales from the bookstore.

No, we are not NPCs in the video game of your life.

PROMPT: A customer approaches the register

>>> BOOKSELLER: “Hi there! Did you find everything okay?”

PROMPT: “Yes, I did.”

>>> Bookseller scans item(s).

PROMPT: Total displayed on screen.

>>>BOOKSELLER: “Okay, you can go ahead and tap when you’re ready.”

PROMPT: Customer taps the screen with their finger.

>>>BOOKSELLER: “...with your card.”

PROMPT: “Oh, of course! Silly me.”

PROMPT: “Do you wrap?”

>>>BOOKSELLER: “Sure, give me a beat.”

No, the love of your life won’t just walk in on some random autumn afternoon.

Be not fooled by the myriad of rom-coms and romance novels set in bookstores– meet-cutes, let alone long-term relationships are hardly guaranteed.1

For one thing, inter-bookseller romance is always a bad idea. At the first bookstore where I worked, I saw it go very wrong. One day, you’re flirting in the cozy cubby of the history section and thinking how nice it is to carpool and eat lunch together in the break room, and the next day you’re struggling to avoid the person who just ripped your heart out the night before. As for the heartbreaker, he had to deal with the rest of the staff (myself included) turning against him, like one spouse winning all the friends in the divorce.

For another, when you work in retail, especially as a young woman, you get romantic attention whether you want it or not. Some people, especially men who are of a certain age, lonely, entitled, or some unfortunate combination of the all three, tend to mistake the bare-minimum politeness of customer service work as flirting.

Once, I was helping a man who must have been in his sixties, and after I placed a book order for him (which is, you know, my job), he put his hand on my arm and leaned close enough for me to smell the stale coffee on his breath and said, “You have such a lovely face.” In hindsight, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to say, “Thanks, do you want it?” and then peeled my face off to reveal I’m actually Tom Cruise underneath. Oh well, you live and you learn.

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Yes, it is the best job in the world.

Apart from those more unsavory customer interactions, the physical toll of being on your feet for six to eight hours a day, and the minimum-wage-pay, being a bookseller is the dream job everyone assumes it to be.

All it takes to turn my day from being unremarkable to wonderful is a two-minute conversation with a customer about the wonders of Jane Austen, getting a laugh after my terrible gift-wrap joke, or meeting a young reader who is so excited to find the latest installment of their favorite series that they literally jump for joy.

The store is quite cozy– especially watching the rain or snow outside the windows, especially when listening to a Nora Ephron-esque playlist, enjoying a hot drink, looking at the technicolor array of spines and covers across the shelves surrounding you.

Even during the holidays, when the stress of gift lists and weather and travel and, let’s face it, the state of the world has people on edge and short-tempered, I still look forward to work every day.

Independent bookstores are essential because they introduce us to the stories and the people which will shape and change our lives. Despite the inevitable challenges that come with any job, working in the bookstore is still my dream job– and it’s where I plan to stay.