Since the weather's been so indisputably fine (ah, fall), the dog requires two generous walks a day, and stores in the neighborhood seem to be courteous to canine customers, I decided to make one of Mister President's evening walks last week a book shopping excursion. There's a small bookstore on Court Street called Book Court that I especially like, maybe because they specialize in fiction or because Mister President is allowed to browse the entire store rather than confined to the area that does not serve food. It's also small, but abundant and well-organized, with a shelf of staff picks and a warm, inviting display window that, if it had a smell, would be of warm gingerbread.
Normally when I shop for books, I'll have a few titles or authors in mind, then when I enter the store, I'll instantly forget them and start hopelessly browsing. Which made me think, how do I shop for books? How does anyone shop for books? Everyone else in bookstores usually looks to me like they know what they’re doing, or have infinite patience and wisdom to make fine selections. I find myself watching these other people for clues, wondering, am I doing this right? Is it okay that I don't have either title or author in mind and am simply scanning the shelves to find as many titles as possible that I've read, an attempt to assuage my ego and prove I'm worthy to be wandering the aisles?
Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit. In Book Court, I had in mind a specific book I had seen the week before in Barnes & Noble, but thought to hold off to make the purchase at the small, independent store. The book was Best Scientific Essays of 2006, and I was admittedly excited. I've been reading a lot of fiction lately, and my mood was swaying towards non-fiction, particularly science writing. And I think when book shopping, mood and taste are step one. What section do I feel like browsing? What am I in the mood to read this month? The answer on this visit was sci-fi essays. Unfortunately, Book Court falls a bit short on the sci-fi selection, so I had to ask myself again, what did I feel like reading?
I wandered to the table of staff picks and new releases to see if any title sparked my interest. There was a short story collection by Kelly Link I thought I had heard someone talking about. The blurb sounded mildly interesting, but a short story collection made my tongue dry. Next.
There was another short story collection with a title having to do with string theory (the exact title escapes me and Google searches are failing me). This tickled my craving for science writing, because I'd love to have even an inkling of string theory, but when I skimmed through one of the stories, I realized I had skimmed through this same collection on my previous visit and the writing was, well, not something I'd buy. I headed off to my comfort zone. Fiction.
In the fiction aisles, I could relax a bit. I'd read some of these books, heard of some of these authors. Though I usually cannot recall the book or author I've been meaning to read, I can often recall the first initial of an author's last name I've been meaning to read, or I can guess at it, and so I start there. I pick a letter and scan last names, waiting for one to jump out at me. If none do, I pick another letter.
I can keep this up for about three or four letters, and then I grow restless, consider buying a classic, and then head toward the door, though I do a loping browse before I walk out, because there's still that chance that something will catch and stick and come home with me. On that trip, nothing did. I left only with an errand to buy the collection of scientific essays at Barnes & Noble, because the hankering was still there and strong. To Mister President's chagrin--he hates shopping--our next evening's walk was to buy the book. And after one essay on yawning and another on what the earth would look like if humans ceased to be, I'm very, very pleased that we did.
