I know I’m supposed to prefer independent bookstores over big box behemoths, but I’m going to come clean and admit that I love Barnes & Noble.
I loved Borders, too.
There’s just something about chain bookstores that suits me. You can wander in them for hours, virtually undisturbed, never feeling as if you’re taking too long because these places were built for leisurely browsing and hanging out in the cafe. It’s kind of like being at the library, only instead of the musty old book smell (also lovely), Barnes & Noble smells like freshly printed books and coffee.
I love indie bookstores too. How could I not? I live fewer than two miles away from one of the very best–Changing Hands in Tempe–and I visit often, shelling out at least as much as I spend at B&N, probably more. Already this year I’ve attended two delightful book launches at Changing Hands, and it’s where I chose to have my own launch years ago. Indie bookshops are charming, cozy, often quirky, each with its own personality and distinct character.
But the familiarity of Barnes & Noble is a comfort to me. I have fond memories of spending whole afternoons reading at their cafes or entire evenings holiday shopping, and these memories span several years and a scattering of cities in different states. No matter where I moved or visited, there was a B&N (or Borders) to quietly welcome me, and the qualities of those chain bookstores that many people scorn are ones I appreciate—the supersized spaces, the predictable look and feel of each store (which ensures me there will be an obligatory café in the corner). Or maybe it’s just the sheer volume of books.
I don’t want to see Barnes & Noble go under. Hopefully that’s not what’s happening, but you’ve probably heard by now that this month they laid off nearly 2,000 employees nationwide. Most, if not all of them, were full-time employees—some with ten or twenty years of service. Reading their personal stories is heartbreaking.
It seems crazy to feel bad for a huge corporation that killed off so many beloved family-owned bookshops, but I do. Over the holidays I supported Barnes & Noble as much as possible. Instead of buying online at Amazon, I purchased my son’s toys (including a pricey Lego set) in-store at B&N, along with every book on my daughter’s wish list (there were many). I picked gifts for myself that could be bought there too, including a few hardcover titles and an irresistible box of peppermint truffles.
I don’t feel this sense of loyalty for corporate stores in general; I make efforts to support independent businesses. Last week when my printer ran out of ink, I searched for a locally owned shop that sells office supplies instead of making a run to Staples. With the exception of the gifts I bought at B&N, I tried buying all of my Christmas presents from independent stores, either local or online (like this adorable bookish tea shop on Etsy from a young entrepreneur in Germany).
I usually don’t feel this sense of loss for corporate stores either, even those that were a part of my childhood. I don’t miss shopping at Sears, I don’t miss Circuit City, I don’t miss malls. But I would miss Barnes & Noble dearly.
What can I say? They did something right. I know because I was never lured to big-box bookstores by the promise of cheap books or simple convenience—it was the atmosphere. The warmth, the comfort, the coffee, the feeling that there was no rush, I could spend all day if I wanted, the sense that I could almost get lost among the shelves. Their sheer size never made the stores feel impersonal and cold. Not to me.
Anyway, I hope Barnes & Noble make it, but it’s not looking good. I still have an unused gift card for Borders that is now merely a keepsake. I have no idea how much it was once worth. But I know exactly how much my Barnes & Noble gift cards are worth, the ones I’ve collected over the last few holiday seasons that I often forget to use. There’s always the next visit, right? Fingers crossed.
Need more to read?
This essay, published in the New York Times by my friend Amy Silverman (who is an incredible journalist and published author) has a few of my favorite things: Silverman’s adorable daughter Sophie, fabulous writing about motherhood, and Disneyland.
This blog post by my friend Heidi (who my son was lucky enough to have for a fourth grade teacher) is a beautiful tribute to her grandmother so rich with detail I feel like I now know Oma Hilde myself.
Finally, this astonishing story by photojournalist Ted Jackson about a famous New Orleans football player who ended up homeless is gripping, heartbreaking, and an absolute must-read. It will take some time, but it’s worth it.
