Our next guest post comes from Hope and, as the title suggests, it’s about her experiences as a bookseller. So, in the interests of not blathering on here for any length of time, let’s get on!
“I’ve always wanted to work in a bookstore!”
This is the response I got from many of my friends and family members when I told them I accepted a job as a bookseller. In terms of romanticized career paths, bookseller is up there with zookeeper, barista, and ice cream flavor tester. Movies like Notting Hill and You’ve Got Mail make independent bookstores seem like cozy sanctuaries where nothing much happens except for meet-cutes and dramatic author readings. Let me spoil your delusions now: we are most definitely not allowed to sit at the counter and switch between reading and gazing out of the window longingly all day.
The truth is, I didn’t always want to be a bookseller. I applied after getting laid-off from my jobs at music venues when the COVID-19 pandemic started in 2020. I threw darts at whatever opportunity I was qualified for and was simply happy to be working again. Sure, the books were a plus. I was a big reader (mostly of non-fiction) and who wouldn’t love to work in a place that constantly smells of fresh ink on paper? If you know, you know. Little did I know, the books and the store would come to mean much more than just a paycheck to me.
My favorite thing about the store during winter is the little “snow dance” people do as they enter. This endearing ritual became a solace to me during a stressful time last year. I came to look forward to the mornings I was placed at the front desk and could welcome customers into the warmth. “I don’t want to get any of the books wet!” many of them would say as they stomped on the door mat and shook their gloves out, sending little white flecks to the ground. The store rarely closes, as our customers will show up in rain, snow, or hail. The fact that they choose to make an uncomfortable trek to the front door and take the extra step to protect the books from the elements warms my heart.
When I wasn’t at work that winter, I was a constant ball of nerves. It turns out that having a surprise first crush on a woman at twenty-five might trigger some anxiety. The accompanying doubt was the most debilitating part. I suffered through many sleepless nights wondering how I could’ve gone to an all-girls high school and never once questioned my sexuality. I had a close friend who came out as bisexual my senior year. I supported her through the process, wanting to be a good ally. What number of my friendships growing up were actually crushes in disguise? I even thought of a seventh grade bully who walked up to me one day, called me a lesbian, and walked away. How did he know thirteen years ago when I was just finding out?
Work was my safe space. I became a worshiper of shelving rules and alphabetical order. I didn’t have a word to explain my sexuality, but I knew exactly where the neon pink spine of My Year of Rest and Relaxation should be in Fiction. You saw the Dune movie and want to buy the entire series at once? Not a problem! We have an entire shelf of it. And we do take returns if that doesn’t work out. Even though I was trying my best not to think about my gay panic on the clock, I noticed I was tuning in to what books my openly queer coworkers were recommending. I listened to them with admiration and a hint of jealousy, wishing that I too could one day utter the sentences, “My girlfriend and I are going to be the characters from One Last Stop for Halloween next year. She’s such a Jane.” How was I supposed to catch up to these professional gays? I didn’t know where to start. I turned, as one does, to the internet. One quick “2021 sapphic books” search later, and I found the very blog you are currently reading this on.
Winter turned to spring, which launched into summer. Customers entered the store with icy drinks and flip-flops, sighing in relief at the air conditioning. My lunch breaks became research hours. I found a perfect bench in a nearby park and sped through a number of titles I found on Reads Rainbow. I squealed in joy at The House in the Cerulean Sea. I destroyed my copy of This Is How You Lose the Time War with literal tears and penciled annotations of OH MY GOD! and THE YEARNING! I can’t even think about the movie theater hand-holding scene in Milk Fed without sweat forming on my forehead. I swooned over seaside sapphics (also known as The Mercies and The Last True Poets of the Sea). Eley Williams’ collection of short stories made me feel so seen that I had to get up and walk my angst out. “[A]ll that I am, you have made italic.” These books reminded me of something that sounds obvious but is easily forgotten: I am not alone. If I could celebrate the messy and unique ways these characters loved, why shouldn’t I be able to celebrate the way I love?
Recently, I overheard a customer asking my coworker for a sapphic fiction rec. They wanted something with longing but a happy ending (sometimes tricky). I swooped in and offered to take them down the fiction aisle to see what we could find. Before I knew it, I had close to ten books to show them. I apologized, not wanting to overwhelm, but they thanked me for my expertise, “It looks like you were the right person to ask.” They left with a copy of Honey Girl. That same day, a few of my coworkers were discussing books in the break room, “I only read queer books,” one of them said, “they just get the yearning right.” I laughed and agreed. We swapped recs for the rest of our lunch hour.
It’s been over a year and I still haven’t settled on a go-to word to describe my sexuality. I also haven’t been a part of a meet-cute involving a movie star or any other regular person. But I’m okay if neither of those things ends up happening. What I tell people if they ask is something my friend said when I first came out to her, “You love who you’re going to love.” I love who I’m going to love. Thank you, heart. For being brave enough to love at all.
