We all bemoan the impending death of the bookstore and yet I admit, I haven't supported one lately. For one, the only ones that survive in today’s online ordering business and Kindlemania are either the very specialized ones, the secondhand bargain ones or the nondescript “whatever sells” kind.
When I browse through the titles on the shelves, I can’t help but feel a strong urge to yawn at the sight of yet another teenage fantasy triology, celebrity memoire, ten-steps guide to utmost riches, love, and/or happiness, or else a trite fivehundred page romance novel. Boring!
Where are the witty short stories? Where are the daring one volume only best story ever books? Where is the content? What I see has all been there before.
Authors and their agents apparently have to keep trends and mass tastes in mind because their publishers are struggling to hit their numbers (or so they say).
Some of the best authors probably keep their stuff in the drawer, because the story they tell is a quiet one, one that doesn’t have Hollywood potential. I guess they could always self-publish on line. And there goes the idea of the independent bookshop.
In our village, we have five cafés and ten restaurants. I guess virtual eating hasn’t come en vogue yet.
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