I made a trip to the neighborhood mega-bookstore earlier today in an attempt to use a gift card I had received as a present (my family has given up trying to pick out a book from the multitudes on my wish list). Unfortunately, none of the titles I really wanted were on the shelves and I decided to make my purchase on-line instead. These weren’t bestsellers I was seeking out, but but they weren’t obscure bottom-listers, either.
I’m not sure why I’m still in the habit of going to bookstores. More often than not, I don’t find what I’m looking for. The aisles can be a hassle to navigate. It’s probably not worth the bother. But as with so many of the things we do that don’t make much sense, habit is to blame. A trip to the bookstore was something I looked forward to as a kid, especially during the winter months. Green Bay wasn’t a town with much in the way of literary tendencies (it still isn’t, as far as I know) and we had only a couple crappy Waldenbooks stores in desolate corners of the local malls, but a visit to one of these sad, harshly-lit places still constituted a treat for me. It was a way to pass the time. Even though the reward isn’t what it used to be, some subconscious part of my brain still does a bit of mental drooling whenever I think about making a stop at the bookstore.
