I woke late this morning – the day already broken and the standard-issue sky still hanging gray and desolate above. Fog rose from the lake in a murky blur and even the ducks sat in a posture of misery in their puddles of water scattered about the low spots in the greenspace behind the house. The landscape out the back door mirrored my interior scape with uncanny perfection. No blooming azaleas today, no lilacs in bud, no iris waving in lavender glory. Yesterday, a day which began with such optimism and joy, was changed dramatically by a single email from a bookseller friend.
As soon as I recovered from the shock of it (I have yet to recover from the sadness) the first thing I thought of was my last blog post. The final line was a quote from that old Bob Dylan song The Times They Are A-Changin' which I had used to convey a sense of hopefulness in a time of massive change and uncertainty in the book industry. This morning I googled the lyrics, some of which I had forgotten, and was struck by the fact that my choice of song turned out to be more prophetic, or at least cautionary, than I’d ever meant it to be.
The news I got yesterday is not unique and that of course is the tragedy of it. My friend is a long time bookseller who has been in the used, rare, and antiquarian game for decades. He’s smart, knowledgeable, experienced, and savvy, but none of that was enough to keep him in business full-time. He’s looking for a day job, he told me, not because he prefers it, but because he must. Acquisition has become an almost insurmountable hurdle, the number of booksellers has grown exponentially, postal rates soar sharply cutting into international sales, and spiking gas prices compromise travel to distant sites. He hopes to remain a part-time seller, which at least is heartening, but not nearly enough. The book world lost something important yesterday and I am not only sad, but mad as hell about it.
Of course I can blame technology for this travesty, but I don’t cast nearly as much blame on technology as I do on the hordes of wannabe booksellers, most of whom don’t read and don’t care a whit about books. But even them I blame less than I do Amazon, the leading force in encouraging anyone with a cell phone to take up bookselling. The wannabe booksellers just answered the call – I doubt most of them have a clue that they are part of a larger problem -- as am I.
I’ve been a player only fourteen years, entering bookselling just a year or so after Advanced Book Exchange provided an online showcase. Amazon as it is today was just a gleam in Bezos’ eye back then. There was no Marketplace, not even z-shops yet, which meant an employee (the dulcet-toned Tiffany) phoned every day at noon to place orders with us. Back then Amazon paid full price for the books, including actual shipping charges, and shifted the cost to the customer without so much as a whimper. But now….. well, we all know about now and Amazon’s role in how things turned out. I don’t want to talk about amazon though – not as a bookseller and not as a writer. My regard, or lack thereof, for them on both fronts warrants not another peep.
What haunts me today is the realization that I inadvertently led to my friend’s problem. By internet standards I’ve been at this an eon, but by bookselling standards I remain a wannabe myself. Yes, I’ve evolved , and thank God for it, because the truth is I entered this business only slightly less opportunistic than those I rail against. Back then I was a full-time writer who decided to sell what I love as a source of additional income. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to fall in love with it to the point where my identity as a writer would take a back seat to my identity as a bookseller. I did have a vague sense of trespassing though. I remember very well standing in line at book sales behind my friend, whom I didn’t know yet, wondering whether he resented my presence. If he didn’t he probably should have because I was part of the first wave of techno-sellers who would end up changing the face of bookselling forever.
If there’s any redemption for me at all in this it can be found in the work and the study. These at least I have done. I paid my dues and will continue paying them for as long as the book gods allow. I’m just sorry that my presence compromised a seller who should have been able to continue his profession until he was ready to quit. I won’t live long enough to put in the years he has, or acquire the expertise. I may very well be displaced myself by a vanishing market, or yet another wave of retailers.
But for now at least I stand -- cognizant of the cost.
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