Owning a bookstore in Brooklyn sounds like a very romantic dream, and in some ways it is. I usually spend my entire day surrounded by the scent of old paper, handwritten notes tucked into forgotten titles and conversations with strangers like Murakami, Baldwin or the latest poetry zine printed out two blocks away. Behind the wood-paneled charm and cozy book nooks, there’s a daily hustle most people don’t see.
I opened this place seven years ago with a mix of blind faith and savings from a boring but stable office job. Back then, it was about building a space where people could pause, really pause, in a city that never does. We host readings, open mics, kids’ story hours, and once, even a wedding.
Business is unpredictable. Some months, we sell out our indie fiction shelf before the 15th. Other times, I stare out the window, wondering if I’ll make rent. Amazon casts a long shadow. Customers will browse for an hour, take photos of five titles, and walk out empty-handed. I don’t blame them entirely. Books are cheaper online. But there’s something sacred about the physical space, the serendipity of stumbling across a book you didn’t know you needed. That’s something no algorithm can replicate.
There’s a rhythm to bookstore life. Mornings start slow coffee in hand, classical music on low volume, and organizing the used section that somehow always looks like it survived a storm. Afternoons bring freelancers looking for peace, teenagers sketching in the manga aisle, and the occasional lost tourist. Evenings? That’s when the magic happens, our regulars roll in. Teachers, artists, single dads buying bedtime books, older women who treat our poetry shelf like a confessional booth.
The best part? Watching someone’s face light up when they find that book. The one that’s been out of print for years. Or hearing someone say, “I didn’t expect to cry in a bookstore today.” That’s what keeps me going.
People think bookstores are dying. Maybe they are, in the traditional sense. But in Brooklyn, at least in this little corner of it, we’re still here. A little worn, a little stubborn, but full of life. And ink. Lots and lots of ink.
