A bookseller's 9/11

On a day when many folk share memories, I offer you this one that contributed to my formation as a bookseller and literary host:

My job as events coordinator at a Portland bookstore involved making sure that the show went on, whenever possible, but on that Tuesday my second thought upon hearing the news was that impossible must surely have just happened. Feeling sure our scheduled author guest would want to cancel, I made haste to call her media escort and offer all understanding for any decision the author made.

Jemiah Jefferson reads from Mixtape for the Apocalypse

The response came back quickly: No, please, she was a New Yorker stranded on the west coast, with no way to reach her family and no clear idea of when she would be able to fly home. She needed to do her work, and be with others. She hoped to connect with readers who also needed simply to gather. All right. I wasn't sure if anyone would come but the hospitality of the bookstore would be at her service. I set up the chairs and hoped she'd get a turnout, but I doubted. I doubted worse than Thomas. Worse, I cared that it looked like we were about to have a flop.

I underestimated everyone.

The audience did come. The author did read, beautifully, but briefly. Then she said that she was glad to keep reading but she didn't feel it was the most meaningful thing she could do at the moment. She asked the audience if they wanted her to open the floor to just talk, and listen to each other. And so they did, and she did.

I learned a great deal that evening, not about the author's writing, but about holding space. It's an overused and often misused term, but when I hear it I remember that woman, and the neighbours who came to the reading, looking for people to be with in a place that would let them. These were not folks who would seek out a church or other traditional place of solace, and they didn't want to buy rounds of drinks. They came to meet this New York writer stuck across the country from her beloveds, and hold space for her, and each other. She showed up and did the same for them, and together they taught me everything I hadn't known before about how and why to do that as a bookseller. 

Willy Vlautin signs The Free

It took me a long time to understand what I learned. After over 20 years, I can no longer remember the author's name, nor the title of her book. I lost those bits of information sometime in the years I took off to raise babies and edit books, when I thought I was out of retail for good. I can't find her by searching on the details I do recall. (I haven't given up yet--just tried again.) This makes me very sad, because she was amazing and deserves to know that she is remembered for her graceful, thoughtful handling of such an awful day, the gift of her time and presence to a community that needed a focus for coming together, and an invitation. I wish she could know that I learned from her not to rate looking professional above being human, and how precious the third place of a bookstore could be. I learned to trust communities of readers and believe in the power of holding space. I learned that a slow night was not as important as a night together. I learned to love this specific part of a bookseller's work, possibly more than any other. (Do I sometimes feel anxious about whether it's going to go well, or if I'm doing it right? Oh yes. It's still worth doing and I can't imagine stopping, short of another public health disaster.)

Since then I've hosted literal hundreds of author events and that author has been on my mind at every one. I've been getting ready to welcome artists and authors into this new third place so she's been with me again. (Unapologetic plug: there's an Events tab on the home page of our website if you want to keep track of the doings!) And here it is, the 22nd anniversary of the day I met her, so I thought I'd share. If you happen to come to an event here, in a way, you'll meet her too. 

--Nena