Note: the series continues!

In this unbearably hot weather, I’ve been unwilling to leave my apartment unless it’s absolutely necessary. Right now, for instance, I’ve left my chilly air-conditioned living room to smoke out here on the balcony because I don’t want my place to smell. I’ve brought out a nearly frozen bottle of Stella to keep me company in this evening heat. I only went out once today, and that was to check on one of my stores. A clerk at the Union Square store noticed that we had no Paul Auster books in stock although our computers showed that we had several of his titles. Could it be that someone had stolen every single one of them? I had read somewhere that his New York Trilogy was the most widely shoplifted book in New York, but it struck me as strange that every Paul Auster book would be missing, even his compiled book of poetry from his Columbia days, which I thought was pretty crappy. I’m wondering if this is something I should be reporting to the police, but before any of that, I’ll just have my people keep a sharper eye out for potential thieves – probably a skinny hipster with torn jeans and messy hair who thinks he’s a writer but is too damn lazy to get a job and buy the books at their already low prices. Bastard. Okay, so a little profiling action and stereotyping – so what? My store(s)!

If money is a concern for buying books, then one should consider buying used books. At my stores, we prefer to sell new books, but for my personal reading, I actually seek out used books only. I love how the previous readers often leave little notes and marks on the pages, giving me something insightful to think about that I probably wouldn’t have come up with on my own. Several of my friends, however, have told me that they find such remnants in used books to be distracting and even degrading to the value of the book. How superficial. I do wonder, though, if the previous reader was a clean person or if he/she was the type of person who didn’t necessarily wash hands after going to the bathroom. Although I take my books into the bathroom with me frequently, I must say that I am pretty good about washing my hands and keeping the books clean. And getting back to the marks in used books — I actually hate writing in books and will never make any of my own marks. It’s a strange thing, I know, but maybe it’s a bookseller’s instinct or something.

Speaking of my own marks, I’ve been asked by my friend Ashley to write a short story for her literary journal called Sprout, which is a charming little publication that is sadly dominated by mediocre self-proclaimed writers. There is the occasional jewel author whose prose makes up for an entire issue that would’ve otherwise been garbage. So I guess if by Sprout the magazine title refers to that budding, rare talent amid the vast wasteland of forgettable writers, then I’d say it’s an excellent name to go by. And come to think of it, I’m a bit anxious because what if I, too, am part of the literary wasteland? She said I should submit a draft by next Thursday. I haven’t written anything at all, but maybe if I re-read some Jhumpa Lahiri and whipped up a pseudo-personal story with ethnic notes – Korean in my case – then it’d be all good. I hate having to italicize words like kimchi and gehsekki, but that’s how you get maximum ethnic mileage out of your story. Probably something about identity and rediscovering my roots would help as well, but of course in a non-cliche, non-Amy Tan sort of way. Ashley is white, not to mention pretty hot, so I’m hoping she’ll dig it. Alright, it’s not too late, so maybe I’ll start writing something.