SOLL: Hole-in-the-wall Bookstore a Fossil

In our current media age, local bookstores are becoming dinosaurs. As an advocate for the people who invest in literature locally, I try to support local bookstores by giving them business and keeping in tow with their recent developments. There are some bookstores in Chattanooga I love to patronize and make my role as literary advocate easy and fun. However, there are others who challenge my graces and my idea of the way literature ought to be shared.

The strip mall where The Book Rack resides is on property directly adjacent to the apartments my brother and our close friend used to rent in Red Bank, TN. So one day I stopped in casually to soak in their niche. I stepped into a cozy office-sized room with paperback books lining the walls on red shelves, with six-foot high shelves crossing the middle of the room as well. The lady at the service desk looked up from the book she was reading and explained they were an all-paperback establishment. They traded books but did not buy. And they were cash only, thank you. After browsing a few minutes I left with the feeling this establishment didn’t care one way or the other for my business.

My relationship with the locally owned Book Rack has been one of tough love. The store is never experiencing other business when I’ve attended, nor would there be much room for them if there were. There are books literally everywhere, which in one regard is my slice of heaven, but on the other hand there is little regard for selection. This isn’t the type of place that orders a title for you that didn’t turn up in their store. They trade in just about any type of book, therefore there are rooms absolutely littered with romance novels, while the classics take up only part of one wall. The selection is spotty at best. I was lucky to find a couple David Sedaris titles in the trade paperback section, and although I found quite a number Isaac Asimovs, there were no HP Lovecrafts to be found.

I did however enjoy talking to the woman at the front desk today when I came in. Although her description of the trade-in process was distinctly confusing, she seemed more interested in my business than the previous lady. She pointed out a book displayed behind the front desk titled “Chattanooga Chillers,” a soft cover whose front emulated a Goosebumps cover. Her enthusiasm alone committed me to trade in the paperbacks I’d brought, instead of lugging them to McKay where I’d get more bang and enjoy an infinitely better selection.

In my quest to support local literature advocates I’m finding there are many ways people choose to go about this. I appreciate diversity in any field, but bookstore owners need to do what they can to pander to the general public, not merely the literary passionate. I’m always tempted to offer my services free of charge to get the ball going, but in the end I realize some people like simply owning a book store and the idea of pushing sales is an afterthought. Maybe some day I’ll own a store and run it the way I choose to, but for now I’ll enjoy the quirks and personalities of the literary pockets in my community.

Author Bio: Lovecraft in Unexpected Places

Sometimes a name fits a person or object like a glove. Take for instance the German word for team, as in soccer team. To my foreign ears, Mannschaft connotes a group of men banding together to perform an operation of great violence or skill; overhauling a submarine, for instance. Fitting, right? 

For a few years now I’ve associated the name “Lovecraft” with one of the classical names of early science fiction. I mistakenly categorized HP Lovecraft into the company of the visionary HG Wells, the prophetic Jules Verne, the ground-breaking Isaac Asimov. But not only was Lovecraft American born, unlike these three writers, he was more eclectic in his fiction writing.

Because I first heard the name mentioned in a college course studying 19^th century ghost stories, I ought to have taken the hint Lovecraft was in the business of writing horror. But to me the name spoke of a grand voyage taken by fantastical creatures to a rainbow galaxy, so how was I to suspect otherwise?

I finally took the hint on a visit last weekend to Barnes and Noble, when waiting for me in the atrium was a collection of HP Lovecraft of Hebrew Scriptural proportions. Having no shame when it comes to public displays of affection with a codex, with two hands I tenderly took the book from its place on the quick-sell rack and flipped its pages lovingly. Only then did I understand this book was a collection of horror fiction. Rainbow galaxy indeed.

But nobody had to know of my little blunder, did they? So I entered the store with my head held high, taking in the wonder of books and living in the endorphin rush. HP Lovecraft was no longer a writer of the cosmic but of corpses, which explained my inability to find him at our giant used Books and CDs store in the science fiction section, no matter how often I walked the genre aisle.

As you've probably guessed by now, or perhaps already know, Lovecraft writes horror as well as science fiction, and--what's this?--fantasy to boot. What a loveable craft this man was blessed with.

And so, at the book store, I moved on to fondling other merchandise, namely the two last books of a certain American essayist my wife and I lack for our collection. At first I couldn’t locate an aisle named "essays," mistakenly scouring the generously stocked World War II history section twice over. The self-search computer was jammed as luck would have it, so this English major swallowed his pride once again and lined up at the customer help desk, where out of the corner of my eye was the missing aisle. Patiently awaiting my audience by the conveniently placed steps to the coffee bar.

For a fascinating discourse on Lovecraft's life and mythos:
http://www.crackle.com/c/Lovecraft_Fear_Of_The_Unknown