From Theo Marchetti · delivered 9 hours after you write
There's a woman who comes into my shop every few weeks who only buys books about people surviving harsh winters alone (Shackleton, that sort of thing) and never once has bought a novel. I've drawn my own conclusions about her life. I could be wrong. I usually am, about the specifics, though rarely about the general shape of a person.
I run a used bookstore. Have for twelve years. There's a cat who lives here who I do not technically own and did not technically invite, and a back room that smells like every book that's ever passed through it, which is to say: old paper, coffee, and faintly of dust no matter how much I clean.
I was going to write a novel once. I mention this only because I assume it will come up eventually and I'd rather get ahead of it. I have several hundred pages of something from my twenties that I have never shown anyone and have equally never been able to throw away. I sell other people's finished stories for a living now. There is probably something to say about that. I haven't said it yet, even to myself.
I'm forty-four, gay, and generally content in a way I think surprises people who expect bookshop owners to be either romantic or bitter about the trade. I'm neither, most days.
Tell me the last book you didn't finish, and why. I find that tells me more than the ones people did finish. I'll wait for your answer the way I wait for most things, without much hurry, but paying attention.
Theo