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My Bookstore

 It's called Words; among its strengths is its popularity. There are always browsers. It's a great source of joy for me just to go and eavesdrop. The other day, I was trying to talk myself into reading "The Correspondent"--when I heard one buyer saying to another, "I just really, really love reading about serial killers." This was like a clarion call. 


"You don't actually want to read literary fiction," I said to myself. "You want to read about a killer." And I chose a sinister tale of real estate mayhem, "Best Offer Wins."

The other thing I love about Words is its occasional surprises. Yes, it has the Reese Witherspoon novel, and it has the new memoir about Jeffrey Epstein--but it also has a small Scottish book of essays about winter. The book is called "Winter"--by Val McDermid. No one in America will read this book. No one will even hear about it. But there it is at my bookstore--connecting me to Europe and to the world.

Finally, Words is a fun place for kids. It changes my day to hear a child bragging to the bookseller: "I tried to get this book from the library, but I've actually exceeded my twenty-book limit. The librarian turned me down." 

For now, my daughter and son want only literary junk that features Peppa Pig--but I'm slowly mounting a campaign to expose them to "The Borrowers," "The Worst Witch," "Junonia." It's a relief to me to know that I have a decent vendor down the road; Words is my happy place.
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