Battle of the Bookstores

by Ali Brady

When I tell people I’m a bookseller, I’m sure they imagine me curled up in a cozy chair reading for hours, sipping coffee and discussing books, or hobnobbing with famous authors at literary events. You know, living the ultimate bookish dream, every breath filled with that intoxicating tang of fresh ink and crisp paper.

What they don’t imagine are the endless hours on my feet, my back aching from hefting twenty-pound boxes of books, or my stomach knotting from the constant stress over razor-thin profit margins and climbing overhead expenses.

Or maybe I’m “not that funny,” as I’ve been told plenty of times. Guess that’s what happens when you spend your formative years inhaling books rather than learning how to, you know, people.

Each book was a doorway to another world, transporting us away from the chaos at home. Reading wasn’t just an escape; it was a lifeline.

The memory of what Josie said turns my sorrow into a rallying cry, a reminder that it’s not just myself and my staff I’m fighting for. It’s for the girls and guys and gays and theys who deserve the support and solidarity my best friend never got.

He clearly doesn’t know that the #2 commandment of readers is “Thou shalt not exploit the goodwill of the independent bookseller only to forsake them for an online mega-store.”

“You deserve a hot one-night stand with a brawny bibliophile.”

On the other hand, I would have known Josie was the oldest even without my conversations with BookshopGirl. She’s a textbook firstborn—a hardworking, high-achieving perfectionist who believes it’s her duty to take care of her sibling. Again, I feel that reluctant

“What was it like, growing up with parents who adore each other?” “Wonderful,” he says immediately. “It’s an incredible gift to give your children, a solid and healthy marriage between their parents.” “But…?” “But it’s a lot to live up to.”

“Oh, so I’m uptight.” I’ve heard these words before: Rigid. Ambitious. Cold.

To quote Miss Taylor Swift—in my defense, I have none.

I’m in a state of heightened stress, my job on the line, and here’s this big, kindhearted man who listens to my ideas and says lovely things and treats me like I’m not just a college dropout who spends her days unpacking boxes and ringing up purchases and trying to prove that she’s made something of herself while battling the ever-present fear that she hasn’t.

And as we lose ourselves in our stories, I find myself hoping, for the first time in my life, for a happy ending.

“Because you know what happens to the characters in a romance novel?” I sigh. “Yes, Mom. They fall in love—” “They change. They grow.” Her voice goes serious. “Even when they have painful pasts or have made mistakes. Those ‘silly books’ show me that anyone can be brave and try again. It’s not that love makes everything work out perfectly—but love can create the perfect environment to face our fears.”

I think of my little bookstore again: Tabula Inscripta, and how Jerome explained why he chose that name. He wanted to capture the way each book leaves its mark on us, inscribing new perspectives and ideas on our minds like a well-worn page. All the stories I’ve read have been my teachers, sheltering me when I needed comfort, making life richer, showing me how to face adversity. It’s never been a choice between fiction or reality, books or people, it’s both. I am the product of every book I’ve ever read and every experience I’ve had, each heartbreak and failure, every moment of sadness and joy. The people I’ve met and the characters I’ve encountered, the events that challenged me and the narratives that have stretched me—all this is inscribed on my soul. They are the stories that shape who I am today and give me the strength to reach for more.

Maybe all stories are love stories at their core. The search for belonging, the ache of grief, our fumbling attempt to find purpose and connection in this big, confusing world.