I believe in independent bookstores. I am all too familiar with the appeal of ordering a book in your pjs and having it arrive the next day, and I am guilty of doing it. Often. But there is nothing like the local independent bookstore.
The way it smells. The way I can hardly make eye contact with the nice gentleman at the register because I am so distracted surveying the eye candy on the front counter - little books about this and that and some poetry by Mary Oliver and Moleskines and a desk calendar by a local artist and and and and.
That it is there at all is a miracle, and I am reminded that whatever I need can wait while I ask my independent bookstore to order it for me. That my business matters. That I am happier living in a place with a local bookstore - or three. That ordering a book in my pjs is nothing compared to browsing the aisles and touching the book jackets and discovering something I’ve never heard of on the table of recommendations by the window.