Starting Out, Starting Up

I am a book nerd, and I'm opening a bookstore in Brooklyn.

Many of you know me as the author of The Written Nerd, where for nearly three years now I've been blogging about books I love, the bookstores I've worked in, the literary events I've participated in, and my conviction that independent bookstores are far from a dying breed: they're the future for those of us who care about community, sustainability, uniqueness, and literature itself. I've seen (and written about) lots of great bookstores that are making it work.

Those of you who have read TWN probably also know that my long-term dream has been to open a bookstore of my own in Brooklyn (obviously, it's right there in my profile). Ever since I realized that bookselling was my calling, I've been longing to be that lovely thing, a Proprietor: to have a space where I could implement all of my own ideas about what a great bookstore should be, and create a place where a community could gather. As that dream has developed, so has my love for my adopted hometown of Brooklyn, a real neighborhoody kind of place, and one that's home to lots and lots of writers and readers. There are a few good bookstores here, but not nearly enough for the vibrant literary community that already exists, and the beautiful neighborhoods lacking a place to come together over books.

Now, at last, after much naive posturing and endless speculating and moments of despair that it will ever happen, that dream is getting closer to reality.

Back in January I won a $15,000 grant from the Brooklyn Business Library for my bookstore business plan. That's maybe 1/20 or so of what I'll need to start up, but it's started the ball rolling. The bookstore doesn't have a name yet (more on that later), but it does have a lot of supporters in the borough as well as in the book industry, and out of that I'm hoping to leverage some investments, some customers, and a space to call my own. It's scarily open-ended -- I'm particularly scared today, which may be why I've finally started this new blog. I need somewhere to let it out, and I need to convince myself it's real.

Here at A Bookstore in Brooklyn, I'll be writing about the progress of my plans for the store. It's something I've been putting off doing for a long time, because I wasn't sure whether the "starting point" had actually arrived. For that reason, I have a lot of catching up to do, because things have actually been happening for some time. The future's far from certain, but I feel, in some way, successful already.

I promise I'll have more concrete stuff in the posts to come. But to make sure you get your literary quotient out of this bookseller's blog, let me close this opening post with a poem. It's one I discovered in a poetry course back in 1997, when I was a freshman at NYU, before my first bookstore job, long before I knew I'd dedicate my life to this career. Like most 19 year olds, I was fairly certain I was Destined For Great Things, and that as in a fairy tale, I'd receive help and instructions along the way. Surprisingly, that's turned out to be true -- if you believe, as I do, that being an independent bookseller is a Great Thing. Somehow the appeal of this poem has survived my youthful intimations of immortality, and has sustained me often as I've struggled to keep my hopes up about the road I've chosen. It's not quite logical, but somehow, it's true. Thanks to everyone who has given their benediction already -- you'll be hearing more.

You Know What I’m Saying?
by Irving Feldman

"I favor your enterprise," the soup ladle says
"And I regard you and your project with joy."

At Grand Forks where the road divides twice over,
the wet wooden squeegee handle poking out
of the bucket beside the red gas pump tells you,
"Whichever way – hey, for you they're all okay."

The stunted pine declares from someone's backyard
you happen to be passing, "I don't begrudge you
your good health. In fact, my blessing – you've got it, now."

An ironing board is irrepressible.
"Your success is far from certain, my friend,
and still it's vital to my happiness."

The yellow kernels in the dust, mere chickenfeed,
call out, "We salute you, and you can count on us."

We do not live in a world of things
but among benedictions given
and – do you know what I'm saying? – received.