My first job at fifteen was in the cafe at a Barnes & Noble bookstore. Probably the greatest job I ever had. That was in Independence, Missouri, and this giant hunk of a store was the most cultured, the most sophisticated place for miles. Miles and miles. I had the greatest friends. They were so interesting (but actually, just mostly goths).
But I didn’t read as much as I wished I had. Didn’t read Virginia Woolf or Dostoevsky. Too intimidated? Too overwhelmed?
Twenty-six years later and here I am in London. All I want to do is visit bookstores. Just be surrounded by their amazing collections. Daunt Books, Gays the Word, Foyles, Waterstones, Common Press, and a few hundred others. But I get overwhelmed.
The environment almost seems too much to process. The stories are pressing in on me. I don’t spend hours and hours in them because it’s just… too much.
I wonder if anyone feels the same. I have a giant TBR pile at home and there’s always so, so much to read. Like when I go to a bookstore, the stories are calling out to me.
Take me home, take me home.
God I would if I could.