It occurs to me that not everyone has the energy or interest to read that entire post and then read all the comments to get the context.  However, I do feel this piece (which comes at the end of the original post) is worth reading if you’ve ever worked in a bookstore, or wondered why anyone would bother to shop in one.

If you want to take your business to Amazon, because it’s cheaper, or faster, or more convenient, well, that’s your business.  But no matter how often they use your name or come up with “recommended reads,” Amazon will never care that this is the first book you read your son, or that this is a wedding present for your best friend; that this crappy early reader is the only book your niece likes and you can’t believe you’re buying it but you’re still so thrilled that she’s reading at all. 

No, it won’t look down its digital nose at you for buying Harlequin or Dan Brown, but neither will it care that you’re looking for a book for a friend who’s going through a rough patch, that you’re stuck on what to give them and you’d really like some advice, but don’t know how to ask, so you ask with your eyes, or the lift of your voice. Amazon doesn’t know that your mother is in the hospital for her second round of chemo, and she’s asked you to find her something, anything, to make her feel better, to make her laugh, to distract her from the pain.
Amazon can’t hear your stories and it doesn’t care.  Booksellers can. And we do.

This is in response to the 125 comments that followed on the heels of this article http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/borders-employees-vent-frustrations-in-ode-to-a-bookstore-death_b38538

which was looking at the list of complaints left by Borders employees about their customers, upon the occasion of the store closing out.  The following is my reply to those 125 posters:

I have worked in a bookstore (independent) for six years.  I still work in a bookstore, actually.  And I love it.  I think that finding the right book for people is a great job, and I love talking about my favourite reads.
Having said that…firstly, stop dissing BAs.  They’re nice. 
Secondly, I agree that bad customer service is the worst—it’s offensive and annoying, and as a retail employee nothing drives me battier than people who neglect the simple courtesies that make life much nicer (on both sides of the counter).  I personally will and have and on a regular basis do, go way, way out of my way to provide exceptional customer service, whether you’re buying Harry Potter, Kafka, or People Magazine.  If you’re a person, I will treat you with respect: please do the same for me.
I reserve the right not to like every book you do, and I expect you to feel the same way.  I also don’t think Nicholas Sparks is the best writer ever; nor do I feel that Stephenie Meyer was the greatest thing to happen to the 21st century.  That doesn’t mean you can’t love them, shouldn’t read them, or that you can’t derive a great deal of enjoyment from their books; on the contrary, I’m happy when someone finds a book they’ve gotten a kick out of and wants to share their excitement with me (it does get difficult when they start using words like “masterpiece” and “genius” to describe James Patterson, though).
For the record, most good bookstore employees don’t judge you on what you read (or if we do, we keep it to ourselves), and if you ask us nicely (as in, speaking in a human tone and saying “hello,” first), we are usually more than happy to help you find what you’re looking for, even if it takes a bit of effort because you can’t remember what it’s called, who it’s by, or when it came out,  I do have to say though that, as noted above, if we can’t find the book you have in mind, that doesn’t make us bad, stupid, or lazy workers, and we do get offended when we are treated as such (just as you are if we treat you like an idiot or are rude to you). 
Most people want to be treated with respect and if at all possible, friendliness.  This is true whether you’re looking to buy a book or sell one.
If you want to take your business to Amazon, because it’s cheaper, or faster, or more convenient, well, that’s your business.  But no matter how often they use your name or come up with “recommended reads,” Amazon will never care that this is the first book you read your son, or that this is a wedding present for your best friend; that this crappy early reader is the only book your niece likes and you can’t believe you’re buying it but you’re still so thrilled that she’s reading at all. 

No, it won’t look down its digital nose at you for buying Harlequin or Dan Brown, but neither will it care that you’re looking for a book for a friend who’s going through a rough patch, that you’re stuck on what to give them and you’d really like some advice, but don’t know how to ask, so you ask with your eyes, or the lift of your voice. Amazon doesn’t know that your mother is in the hospital for her second round of chemo, and she’s asked you to find her something, anything, to make her feel better, to make her laugh, to distract her from the pain.
Amazon can’t hear your stories and it doesn’t care.  Booksellers can. And we do.

madandimpossible:

Voice on the telephone: “I have to say, it’s quite impressive. People have spent years - decades - their whole lives trying to track me down and it only takes you two a few hours.

Watson: “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

Voice: “Look to your left.”

What—you’ve never dreamed of a Doctor Who/Sherlock crossover?  Really? 

Well fine then.

Speaking as a Vancouver Islander and a Canucks fan, I would like to take this moment to apologise, to the people of Canada and to the international community. I wasn’t in Vancouver last night, nor do I live there. Nevertheless, I feel the humiliation and shame of what happened as strongly as if I was a native Vancouverite. I have no excuses to offer—the violence of last night was crass, frightening, utterly disgusting, and there can be no explanation that exonerates those involved. To know that these stupid, vicious, opportunistic morons have become the poster-people for Vancouver, BC, and Canada makes me want to cry.

I have always been proud to be Canadian, and even prouder to be from the West Coast. I never thought I would be ashamed of it.
To the rest of the province, the rest of the country, and the rest of the world: I’m sorry. We didn’t want this.

Makes me happy…

“It’s been a long time, now I’m, coming back home.”  —The Beatles

Truer words were never spoke. 

I have things that I want to do, and plans and dreams that I hope to achieve.  I want to climb things (rocks, mountains, trees, walls…I’m pretty open).  I want to play music and give myself completely to the music, instead of getting tense and frustrated.  I want to take pictures—not because I’m good at it or because I’m artistic, but because it amuses me and I like to have digital memories of things.  I want to feel good because I’m doing things that make me feel good, and that are really good for me (not that facebook isn’t great, but you know…). I want to run more, and hike more and swim more and be more physical and get stronger and more flexible and be able to do more things that are a challenge and feel good because they are. I want to surround myself with music and vegetables and really good paintings.

 I want to make my bedroom more beautiful because my GOD is it a tip and I want to sing more. I want to spend time outside in my neighbourhood and share it with people because it’s mine and it’s amazing and it should be shared. 

I want to have picnics on the beach, and at the park and at the university. I want to play scrappy games of soccer and Frisbee and get grass stains on my now very worn out jeans and have barbecues (vegetarian, of course), and lie on my lawn or the boulevard or a field and watch the clouds go by.  I want to find people to play double-dutch jump-rope with because I haven’t tried it since I was 13 and maybe I have some latent talents that will now flourish and how will I know if I don’t try? 

I want to read books that I’ve always meant to but never have; to immerse myself in utterly glorious prose and come up for air sparkling and golden with the language I was born loving. I want to read A Tale of Two Cities and The Little Prince and Middlemarch, and reread Swallows and Amazons so that I can rekindle my passion for boats and sailing and piracy and adventure.  

I want to learn new things and old things and relearn things I’ve forgotten but ought to remember. I want to dance and I want to go camping.  I want to go to Vancouver in July, and hear Pokey Lafarge and the South City Three. 

I want to bake my own things, and make my own things. I want to spend time with my family, who are my best friends, and with my best friends who are practically my family.  I want to have huge social gatherings and occasionally to wander off on my own.  I want like to spend some time on my own, to see what it’s like.  I want to play my cello and learn to drive and go swimming and build a wall and play guitar and change the world a little bit.  Or a lot. 

I want to embrace my summer for what it is. I want to turn 21.  I want to see things and take on things and grow older with integrity.  I want to be here. I want to be alive as much as I can be.

The courage it took to walk out and stand up to a man like Harper…

timothycarlow:

This woman is a hero.

theslexperience:

Imagination

And I forgot to mention: the bookcase on the back porch, that I’m moving into my parents’ room, is also full of books—which means that the books that were on the bookcase that is being moved into my room will have to be integrated elsewhere.

Oh dear.

The current situation. Books are still all over my parents’ bed and bedroom; my room is still a mess. 

The constantly evolving plan involves moving a bookcase from the back porch to their room, moving DVD tower onto the back porch, moving one of the bookcases from my parents’ room into my room, moving my armoir to make space for said bookcase, and then finishing the complete reorganisation/re-alphabetization of all the books that go in these cases. And then clean my room.

Over-optimistic much?

A Note on Titles:

Why “Bookgate?” Because everything seems to have “-gate” added to it these days and I was feeling left out.

And what does WKWD stand for? “What Would Kafka Do.”