Working in a bookstore can be a solitary job. If alone, one can shelve books quietly, study the synopsis of a particular title without worrying about time constraints, enjoy just being surrounded by words. In two of my mystery bookstore jobs I was alone a great deal. My desk was upstairs within new hardcovers and collectible titles at one job. Enya’s soothing voice echoed around the room –over and over and over and over and, well you get the idea. If a customer did venture up the twisted staircase, they usually were known to me, and we would discuss what titles they had read, what they needed to read, and or collect, and then off they would go with whatever purchases they decided upon. I didn’t even have the responsibility of ringing them up. I did order hardcovers, set up signings, invoice customers, etc., etc., etc., and it kept me in perpetual motion. I answered the phone, took orders, blah blah. I was never without something to do. Which is a good thing, because I was also in a state of perpetual anxiety. At least when I first began the job. I’d just come from managing a bookstore where the owner had passed away, and wanted to do a exemplary job at my new manager’s position at a prestigious specialty bookstore. Normally worries would have passed within a reasonable time, but the extra added pressure of a popular former manager starting part-time exactly at the moment I took over the job, gave me pause to wonder–what’s up with that? And if I don’t perform up to expectations, will I be history and the former manager slide right in?
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