The People You Meet in a Bookshop

Telling a story is like baking a cake. There are many varieties from which to choose, countless recipes to use, and plenty of opportunities to add personal flavor. There is one crucial ingredient, however, that determines whether a story comes together, or falls apart into illegible mush. It is the flour in the cake mix of storytelling which determines whether a story is good, or just alright. I’m talking, of course, about character. A lack of character can be concealed by a complicated plot, full of strong tastes and exciting textures, but good character can make even the most simple story seem delicious. 

I think a lot about cake (and character) when I’m at work. For the last several months, I have been a bookseller in an independent bookstore on the New England shoreline in Connecticut. At the store, we have a large cookbook section, and on quiet nights I can be found flipping through the glossy pages of one baking book or another, though frankly I’m more interested in eating the intricately constructed treats than making the cake myself. 

Stories, on the other hand, I want to consume and create in equal measure. My tastes run fairly wide― cozy mysteries, contemporary romances, essay collections, magical realism, graphic novels, and more all suit my palate, as long as they feature good characters. I can love them, hate them, pity them, root for them, fear for them, envy them, admire them, laugh at them or with them. As long as I can sit for hours with its characters, I consider a story to be good. 

In the time I’ve spent working at the bookstore, however, I’ve come to realize the best characters are the ones I encounter off of the page― the characters who populate the story of the day-to-day life of a bookseller. Like all literary genres, the bookstore has its archetypes. The same type of people in different flavors who come in each day to sip their coffee and shop, to browse the bookshelves and buy their next big read. 

There are the Regulars, of course. 

Every day, Janet or Patricia or Mary or Nancy come in for a book and a “nice lunch” in the cafe. They each announce their full name before I even ask if they keep a customer file with us, and tell me they’ve been buying their books here since we opened (which was thirteen years before I was born). JanetPatriciaMaryNancy always finds the most amusing, peculiar ways of complimenting me. The other day, when I retrieved a book for her from a high shelf, she said: “Elizabeth, you have such wonderful height.” Another time, when I said the same joke I always say (“You can tap, insert, or do the Hokey-Pokey, whatever your credit card requires.”), she nearly wet herself laughing, and said: “That’s exactly right! You should be an observational comic.” I always slip JanetPatriciaMaryNancy a piece of chocolate on the house as a thank-you for being such wonderful customers (and maybe a little bit because they always say I’m their favorite). 

There are the Husbands, more than likely married to JanetPatriciaMaryNancy. They tend to hover near the history and biography sections, picking up books thick enough to be used as doorstops. When asked, “Can I help you find anything?” the answer is invariably: “My wife.” The Husbands are often surprised when I recommend an American History book, having assumed that as a young woman I would only be able to discuss the latest romance novel (I can do that too, by the way). Some cannot quite get over their assumptions, but others have been persuaded to try one of Isabel Wilkerson’s books instead of yet another look at WWII. I slip them a piece of chocolate as well (if my managers ask why our chocolate inventory is off, you didn’t read any of this).

One Regular, we’ll call him Mr. Sweden, comes in every Sunday. I swear he has some kind of telepathic connection to the store, because he always manages to arrive when there’s a rush, and presents a list of no less than five books at a time. He proceeds to talk, mostly about history, until you signal someone at another register, who calls and asks for your help, right away. Still, Mr. Sweden comes back every week, and while he slows down production for a time, we all mean it when we say he’s one of our best customers. I’m not sure I could imagine a Sunday without him. 

For about a month, there was another man who came in on Sundays. He’s much younger than Mr. Sweden (and very handsome), and while I helped him curate his stack, we would talk about Boygenius and Orson Welles and screenwriting. As I learned later, he wasn’t coming in to buy books, as much as he was coming in to see me. He was a Regular for as long as it took to finally work up the courage to ask me to have dinner with him (at the same moment I was slyly writing my phone number down on a bookmark to slip into his latest purchase). Since that day, he hasn’t come into the bookstore more than once. Although he assures me, when we’re laying together talking about Billy Wilder and Pride and Prejudice and what we’re going to do tomorrow, that he’s only using me for my employee discount. 

My favorite Regulars, however, are the young readers, who come with a gift card or their weekly allowance, and eagerly sort and search through the haven upstairs that is the children’s and young adult section. Some know exactly what they want, marching up to me at the counter and demanding to know: “Where is Dog Man?” and adding a reluctant “please” when prompted by their parents. Others, to my delight, want some guidance, and I get to pitch my favorites, passing down the books which molded me into who I am today. One evening, after taking nearly an hour to pick out the right book, a young reader declared to his mom and dad: “I have always wanted to have a book like this one. I can’t wait to start reading this when we get home!” These young readers are the most important Regulars, I think, because they’re our best hope for keeping the store running long enough that they’ll come back in thirty-odd years and declare their love of the store with as much passion as JanetPatriciaMaryNancy. 

We have plenty of Visitors, too. 

Folks come from all over the place to visit our store, whether they have family in the area who insist on a visit to the bookstore every Thanksgiving, or they’re on a New England leaf-peeping trip up from Florida, or a mother-daughter Gilmore Girls tour of Connecticut. Once, I met a father and daughter who came all the way from Kentucky just to visit our bookstore, and planned a whole week in Connecticut around their book-buying plans. After talking to them, my thirty-minute commute stopped feeling quite so long. 

There are less pleasant Visitors, too― the ones who don’t come in to buy books, but rather to corner me about the books that other people are buying. One woman came in once and demanded to know if we were selling J.D. Vance’s memoir. I pulled a copy for her, only to hear her say, “Oh, I don’t want to buy it, I just wanted to make sure you were selling it.” Another old man once grabbed my arm and said, “I think all those gay books in the children’s section are just disgusting.” I was left speechless and frightened for a moment, before I went upstairs and made sure all our copies of Heartstopper were proudly on display. 

The most exciting Visitors are the authors who come to discuss their new releases. We’ve had everyone and anyone from Richard Osman to Nora Ephron, from Hillary Clinton to Hulk Hogan, and countless others in between. I’ve been able to listen in on talks about the historical rise of Jewish mob activity in New York City, on the vast and underrated varieties of honey across the world (and how to taste them), on the process of writing a love story that spans eighty years, and many fascinating perspectives on storytelling as a whole. I am reminded most often of why I became a writer when I hear these authors discussing their process and craft and frustrations and joys. They inspire me all over again to try new methods, explore different styles, and above all― to keep writing. 

And then there are the Booksellers. 

In my completely unbiased opinion, Booksellers are the best characters you will find in the bookstore genre. My theory is that it takes a special combination of traits to be a Bookseller― you have to be well-read and interested in literature of all kinds, be strong enough to carry stacks and stacks of books every day, as well as be personable, calm under pressure, and able to handle every one of the characters I’ve already introduced (and more). At our store, Bookselling is what one of my colleagues calls “a starter job or an ender job,” meaning the Booksellers are either under thirty or over sixty, with no one in between. To protect their privacy (and perhaps their dignity), I have changed every Bookseller’s name to an appropriate literary equivalent. 

I am part of the Under-Thirties, having found the job in my search for meaning (and more importantly, money) after finishing my degree. The Under-Thirties are generally defined by our large takeaway cups of coffee, our affinity for using new picture books as therapy (if you need to feel better about the world, read a picture book), and our ill-advised habit of feeding our paychecks back into the store by buying a book at the end of every shift. 

Individually, there’s Orlando, who is by far the best-dressed of all the Booksellers. They read short story collections and queer romances at a speed which I could never match, and always greet me by saying “hey diva,” which automatically makes me feel cooler than I ever have been. Beatrice, who is funny and self-aware and knows more about the horror genre than anyone I’ve ever met. Anne, who dutifully completes web orders until late at night, and becomes one of the funniest, most honest people after one margarita. Emma, who runs the social media and could charm anyone into lip-syncing for a TikTok video while holding a copy of the latest release. Holden, the only male-identifying Bookseller, who dutifully reaches things from the highest shelves and drops dry jokes that make me worried JanetPatriciaMaryNancy might like him more than me. 

None of us have been at the store more than five years, and none of us plan to stay forever, with dreams of publishing our own novels, becoming literary agents or sales reps for a publisher, or moving to California to write screenplays. 

Our counterparts, the Over-Sixties, however, have all been at the bookstore for at least a decade, if not longer. The Over-Sixties are generally defined by their vast knowledge of the local community, their tendency to take the leftover wine home from author events, and their ill-advised habit of feeding their paycheck back into the store by buying candles and trays and ceramic dishes from the gift-section. 

The Under-Thirties may be my peers, but my kindred spirits are a trio among the Over-Sixties. Marilla, who sits at the front desk and has (rightfully) amassed her own fan club among the customers over the years, who bring her coffee and slices of cake and ask for her on her days off. Marilla sings, mostly songs from the ‘50s, which she has to teach me so I can participate in her call-and-response. When I told her I was sorry for messing up a shipping order during my first week, she said to me: “Elizabeth, unless there’s blood on the floor, never apologize.” 

There’s Agatha, who reads about two novels a week, and initially bonded with me over our shared (though four decades apart) experiences living in England. Agatha knows more about the Tudors and Oscar Wilde than most historians, and can recommend the best mystery novel you’ve ever read at the drop of a hat. Agatha and her husband never had children, but traveled all over Europe with a boombox, and gathered enough amazing stories and friends to fit in her own book (which I’m begging her to write). 

And then there’s Maisie. She appears like a mild-mannered children’s librarian, with her neatly braided hair and slender, cardigan-clad frame, but I know better. I once wore a short-sleeved blouse to work and she came over to me and whispered, “Elizabeth, you slut! But it takes one to know one, I suppose,” and then disappeared. Maisie and I drink prosecco together and talk about our anxiety, our mutual love for the Adam West Batman series, and how someday we will cash in her retirement account and buy a house in Scotland together. Maisie is the funniest, raunchiest, most wonderful person you could ever have the good fortune to work with.

I could go on about each of these characters and more, but that is precisely the point I am (somewhat inelegantly) trying to make. The bookstore is filled with characters which together create fabulous, frustrating, funny stories for me to tell when I get home at the end of the day, but each of these characters belong to their own stories. An entire novel could be written about Mr. Sweden, or Maisie, or even the Visitor who found queerness to be so unsavory. And, certainly, those novels would be completely different if they were written by you, than if they were written by me, even if they featured the same characters. 

Characters, like flour in a cake, are the basic essential to storytelling, the starter element from which you can build an intricately frosted, three-tier cake of a story, which will inevitably be different from any story told by anyone else. Thus, whenever I come home from the bookstore, I find myself as inspired as I am hungry, ready to see what sort of story I will tell next. 

Elizabeth Roy is currently a bookseller, with grand aspirations (delusions?) of being a screenwriter for television and film. After spending a formative year abroad at the University of East Anglia in the UK, she earned a degree in American Studies and English from Dickinson College in 2024. She enjoys watching television shows with fast-paced dialogue and films with "Knives Out" in the title, drinks a lot of tea, and can be found most often singing along to Hozier in the car. She currently lives with her family, just outside of New Haven, Connecticut.