So you can see what I see

A friend started a thread on a message board we're both on, asking what our dream jobs were. This was my response.

It's that bookstore where you go and browse and find the book you came in looking for, plus books you didn't know you wanted to read. And the person behind the counter knows who you are and what you like, and you shoot the shit with them for a few minutes before you go. You recommend books to them, they tell you about the new This or That Author coming in the fall, and you know there'll be a copy waiting for you when it comes out.

Coffee? Sure, but not anything pretentious. None of this Grande/Venti half-caff mochaccino shit. Coffee. Pure and simple and good. You wanna fancy it up? You're in the wrong place. We sell books here, not java.

Decent-sized floor space or even an attached building/room for events. Local musicians, poetry slams, book groups (for good books, obviously). Author signings - local authors and some of the big guns. I'm not talking Grisham or Patterson. They don't quite follow the store name, do they? I mean Christopher Moore, George RR Martin. And hey, dream store, yeah? Neil Gaiman, Stephen King.

We don't sell Cliff's Notes. Nor do we sell candles, or any distracting sidelines that aren't book related. You want Beanie Babies and kitsch? Go to the Hallmark store.

But, before you go, have you read Inkheart?

I know it's a thankless job. I know in reality, it's really fucking hard to get an indie off the ground and keep it in the black. You work long hours - sometimes ten, twelve, sixteen - for not a lot of pay. You argue with publishers, customers, authors, other bookstores. B&N wants to build across the street and steal your business. The bestsellers are 30% off at Wal-Mart, and Amazon's offering free shipping. All the authors get sent to the Borders two towns over and hey, why does Books-a-Million have the new mass markets a week before I do?

I know all that. I know it.

I still want it.