Yes, Amazon Is the Best—But Let's Not Forget About Independent Bookstores
Today is independent bookstore day, a holiday founded by bibliophiles to celebrate and support local bookshops across the country. While "an independent bookstore crawl" might sound like a snooze to some—or just inconvenient—in the age of Amazon and iBooks, I know firsthand just how important these shops are to not just the literary world, but literary lovers.
When I first moved to New York City as a recent college grad, I didn't know anyone in the city. My days were spent working hard at internships, and, later, my first full-time job in media. But the nights were lonely. My best friends all lived in different states, and my family was back home in Maryland. Surviving on an intern salary in one of the most expensive cities in the world, with no extra money for cable TV (and long before "Netflix and chilling" became a thing), I'd come home after work to rewatch Sex and the City DVDs or lose myself in a book.
But being cooped up in the small three bedroom apartment I shared with stranger roommates wasn't always exciting. So on the weekends, I began to wander the streets of the beautiful yet exhausting city I'd chosen to live in—a young 20-something quite literally trying to find her way. And more often than not, I'd find my feet lead me into a bookstore. But these were not the Barnes and Nobles or Borders (RIP) that I used to hang out in growing up back in the suburbs of Maryland. These were bookshops—locally owned businesses brimming with charm and personality as whimsical as the characters that lived on their shelves.
During these weekend adventures, I'd travel by foot for miles, everywhere from the Shakespeare and Co on New York's Upper East Side to The Strand in Union Square, home to a record-setting 18 miles of books. But my headquarters quickly became the Rizzoli bookstore on 57th street in Manhattan, a stunning six-story townhouse from the early 1900's that was complete with domed wooden ceilings and dripping chandeliers. (The building was torn down in 2014 and replaced with a condominium. I'm still not over that travesty, though a shiny new, nearly-as-beautiful Rizzoli location now stands in Manhattan's Madison Square Park.)
Each weekend, I'd pick a new section: fiction one Saturday, travel the next, biographies the following. Slowly, I'd peruse each shelf, running my fingers over the spines, taking my time as I looked over every single title. With just enough money in my bank account to treat myself to one (just one!) under $20 book each a month, I'd carefully select a few options to curl up with in a corner, previewing before deciding whether I was ready to make a purchase.
As I spent hours—sometimes until the sun set—in the corners of these independent bookstores, I often wondered why no one bothered me; how a bookstore could stay in business by just letting its customers check out merchandise, often without ever actually buying anything. But part of the magic of independent bookstores is, in fact, that independence.
The owners and employees at indie bookshops are pure, unapologetic book lovers. They're not a robots, or algorithms, or glowing screens. They're real, live people who are in this business that most people would say is doomed because they love it. They can often be found behind the cash register with a pen in hand—sometimes with a cat behind them—doodling notes in the corner of a page. They'll either pay absolutely no attention to the customers walking around their store, or they'll wax poetic with them for an hour about the pros and cons of Langston Hughes versus Zora Neale Hurston. They might introduce you to the secret thriller on a back shelf that no one in America knows about yet, or simply ring you up with a smile and a bookmark.
A post shared by Arianna Davis (@ariannagab) on Feb 5, 2017 at 10:40am PST
I will be the first to admit that, as a certified book-aholic, I have a very (expensive) novel-habit that means a Book of the Month subscription and many (many) late night Amazon Prime orders. After all, thanks to the internet, we can now have an addicting tale on our doorsteps—or on our mobile devices—with the snap of a finger. It's very convenient, indeed. But for me, there is nothing like the quiet, safe space of an independent bookstore—the smell of pages, the conversations with fellow bookworms, and the nooks and crannies where you can quite literally lose yourself—or find yourself.
It's been a decade since my love affair with bookshops began. Since, I've felt a lot less alone. I've found the kind of love I used to only read about, plus built a supportive circle that consists of my sister, cousin, and best friends. Now, I often have a work schedule so busy that all I want to do on the weekends is crash on the couch with some Netflix (that now exists—and I can afford it!) or grab one of the reads already waiting for me in the towering stacks of my small studio apartment. (No more roommates!)
Still, every so often, I get an itch of restlessness—and, yes, despite it all, even loneliness. And it's then that I know exactly where to go: the nearest place stocked with shelves that will welcome me with an open armchair, a brooding owner, and a meowing cat. And it's there, surrounded by books that have been lovingly selected and displayed by people who love them as much as I do, that I feel my most at home.
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