Bookstores Must Change; An Entry Fee Isn’t The Answer To The Problem
A piece published by The New Yorker asks, "Should we pay to enter bookstores?" But such a question is rooted in bias and an improper understanding of the main challenge that bookstores face today.
Bookstores are in trouble, and there doesn’t seem to be a way out. A piece published by The New Yorker asks whether we should pay a fee to enter bookstores as a means to saving the industry and leveling the playing field between online retailers and brick-and-mortar bookstores. But the question, as well as the commentary, written by Howard Fishman, is astonishingly myopic and biased in its prognosis of the reality that bookstores face today. The sub-lede of the piece frames the article as a battle between online book retailers (i.e. Amazon); thus, it misrepresents what the real problem is.
Bookstores are not under siege by online retailers. The problem that bookstores face today, a problem that they’ve been facing longer than most people in the publishing industry understand, care to acknowledge, or are willing to admit, is not the power and dominance of Amazon or any other online retailer that shills books. The problem is the romantic notion of the traditional bookstore model, a model that was never really diverse to begin with or designed to be particularly lucrative. Moreover, this model, its shortcomings aside, is one that most independent bookstores owners refuse to recognize is all but dead.
Public libraries, which I believe are more vital to society than independently owned bookstores, are recognized as institutions that provide an important service, albeit under the auspices of the state and local municipalities and not independent financial support. As such, public libraries usually perform this service without any of the romanticism and fanfare that is typically associated with bookstores; and rightfully so, public libraries are institutions, not businesses in the same sense as brick-and-mortar bookstores. And even though public libraries provide a daily service to a broader number and more diverse group of people, it’s bookstores that garner most of the love in popular culture. But if it could be said that libraries have been known for doing most of the heavy lifting when it comes to the distribution of books in a thriving society (well, at least before the arrival of Amazon), it’s bookstores that have long enjoyed the kind of hip prestige that trigger write-ups like The New Yorker piece.
To be clear, I value both public libraries and bookstores; but I have always been wary of the limited scope of traditional bookstores, particularly in the face of inevitable change in everything from demographics to politics to consumer habits. As a Black American and New Yorker (now living in Paris), I have seen some of the best and worst bookstores that there are. Moreover, I’m acutely aware of the accessibility of most brick-and-mortar bookstores, not merely in the sense of the slant of a given bookstore but also the general de facto idea of who, by and large, bookstores are supposed be for, even in a city as diverse as New York. In bookstores, just like department stores, I’ve been shadowed by security guards and staff. I can not say the same about my experience in public libraries.
In other words, many champions of bookstores have blindspots that they’re not aware of. The biggest blindspot is that the romantic view of bookstores is not a universal one. Not everyone fawns over the idea of bookstores. To most people, bookstores are simply places where you can go and buy books, nothing more, nothing less. The so-called “intangibles” of browsing the shelves of a bookstore for hours and sitting in a reading area with a cup of coffee is just not as appealing or important to everyone in the book-buying public. The other blindspot that is often carried by avid supporters of bookstores is that bookstores do not necessarily represent a place of welcome and acceptance to everyone. The reality is, bookstores have, very much in the past and even still in some cases today, acted just like academia and other cultural institutions inasmuch as they have not always been terribly inviting or accessible to all racial and ethnic groups within society. The reasons for this vary. It can be the slant of the titles on offer, it can be the location of the bookstore itself, it could be the lack of discounts, and it can even be the bookstore’s staff itself.
Just as with the music industry, the publishing industry, and by proxy independent brick-and-mortar bookstore owners, is overran by decision makers who are stuck in a by-gone era and who lack a fundamental understanding of the current marketplace and changing consumer habits. Take for example, Miles Bellamy’s misinterpretation of what a real estate boom in Williamsburg, Brooklyn would mean to the success of Spoonbill & Sugartown, a well-known bookstore in the heart of Williamsburg that sits along a strip with lots of foot traffic. Bellamy, the majority owner of Spoonbill & Sugartown, told The New Yorker that he expected the “neighborhood’s real-estate explosion in the past ten or fifteen years…to be an uptick in business.”
That Bellamy could not comprehend what a real estate boom in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, one of the hottest and increasingly priciest neighborhoods in New York City, would inevitably mean for his business gives you a glimpse into the delusion that plagues some bookstore owners. Williamsburg’s real estate boom has been powered by the affluent, people with loads of discretionary income and people who are more discerning of a good deal and their free time. In other words, the kind of people who will gladly pay for an Amazon Prime membership that will get them their favorite books (often at a much cheaper price) delivered to their home in two days or less. I mean, why waste time trampling down to the bookstore and spending an hour there when you can use that time to go to brunch or take that disco nap that you’ll need for drinks later on?
Bellamy also thinks that relying on “gimmicky revenue streams like coffee, tote bags, and notepads in order to stay afloat” is not the way to go. Bellamy is adamant about doing it “the traditional way,” maintaining that “If the greatest city in the world can’t support me, I’m gonna close my doors and head up a country road.” But the traditional way is dead, and his inability to recognize this fact, or perhaps his inflexibility in confronting it, signals more of the same delusion.
On the other side of the spectrum, bookstores that have pivoted to offering more than books (i.e. the so-called intangible book-buying experience) are thriving. This is the case with The Strand and McNally Jackson. While each bookstore has experienced longevity in New York City, they have not rested on their laurels; instead, as Fishman recounts in his piece for The New Yorker, they’ve expanded to include on and off-site reading events. And the owners of these two bookstores are actively considering other initiatives, including the idea of a membership fee.
Nancy Bass Wyden, owner of The Strand, is not opposed to exploring new models:
“Her store’s continued success may have as much to do with its iconic status and longevity (her grandfather, Benjamin Bass, opened its doors in 1927) as with her initiatives to drive sales through author readings and signings, both on-site and off,” writes Fishman. “The Strand was hosting four different events on the day that I spoke to her, each in a different location, and all of which required attendees to either purchase the book being promoted or a fifteen-dollar Strand gift card for later use. Wyden has toyed with the idea of a club membership (like Barnes & Noble’s loyalty program), and has even considered experimenting with a consignment model, whereby sellers set their own prices for the books that they bring in to sell and pay a nominal rental fee for shelf space.”
Wyden even seems open to charging an entry fee to her store sometime in the future, but she’s careful to point out that the bookstore would have to morph into something else before that could happen. “I’ve never thought about charging to come into the store,” Wyden says, “but it’s a great future conversation to have. We would need to change the store into a club-like environment loaded with seating; free events, like a reading club; and refreshments.” In other words, Wyden understands that an entry fee to bookstores means that bookstores must offer much more intangibles than just mere browsing of books.
The Blindspots At Play
Here, I turn back to the biases and blind spots of The New Yorker piece, specifically: 1) The misrepresentation of the issue as a battle between bookstores and online book retailers, one in which the playing field must be leveled; and 2) The statement that “there must be a way to level the playing field a bit between brick-and-mortar shops and cheaper, more convenient online retailers, ideally sooner rather than later.”
First, brick-and-mortar outfits, from bookstores to shoe stores and everything in between, are not on the same playing field with online retailers to begin with. Brick-and-mortar stores and online retailers are two different beasts that do not fundamentally operate in the same way in the marketplace. Take for instance, traffic. Brick-and-mortar book stores rely on foot traffic and minimal (if any) internet advertising. Online retailers, especially the likes of Amazon, rely on web traffic, heavy internet and television advertising. In this regard, the two types of entities are not necessarily in competition for the same audience — readers are not one monolithic group that swoon over bookstores.
Second, The New Yorker piece acknowledges the benefits of online retailers but seems to suggest that these benefits — “cheaper, more convenient” — are at odds with what book buyers/readers want. Let’s be clear, readers are consumers too, and it’s wrong to suggest that they are less interested in finding a good deal. It’s even worse to imply that readers who buy books from online retailers, as opposed to bookstores, are immoral or are less supportive of authors and publishers. Consumers have always been attracted to lower prices and convenience. Period. It doesn’t matter what the product is. This is why the romanticism of bookstores — which, if we’re being honest, has never touted the same level of diversity in books and authors, or offered the same volume of stock of online retailers — is grossly misplaced. Incidentally, in the framework of this false equivalency faux battle between brick-and-mortar bookstores vs. online retailers, I wonder what Fishman’s position is on eBooks. All readers benefit from this cheaper, more convenient, more accessible format, but eBooks are often vital to poor people especially in places around the world where there are few, if any, bookstores. In this paradigm, eBooks are often the only (or most economical) means to accessing a broad catalog of books.
Third, the opening sentence of Fishman’s The New Yorker piece plays loose with the facts:
“Do I purchase the book there and then from the Strand without pause, thus supporting bookstores, publishers, authors…? Or do I drive myself crazy by pulling out my phone and checking how much money I would save were I to buy the book online?”
Here, Fishman implies that buying books from bookstores is a way to support publishers and authors while buying books from online retailers is not. This is simply not true. Bookstores purchase the books that they sell either directly from publishers or book distributors, just like online retailers. In some cases, bookstores receive a lower discount than online retailers, 40% off list price compared to 55% that large online retailers receive. Superchamp Books, the publishing company that I co-founded with my son, Amir Ali Said, and the publisher of Best Damn Writing Magazine, absorbs a 55% discount from Amazon and our distributor Ingram and a 40% discount from bookstores. When consumers buy our books from Amazon, Ingram, or bookstores, we get paid and our authors get paid. In other words, readers support publishers and authors when they buy books from bookstores and online retailers.
Next, we must remember that bookstores (not counting non-profit bookstores) remain under the umbrella distinction: commercial entity. Under the paradigm of a commercial entity, bookstores aim to make a profit, and they must compete in the marketplace in order to thrive. At their disposal are the titles that they choose to stock and any other competitive advantage that they can come up with, including hosting events on and off site. For me, the story all but ends there. Some bookstores will prosper via the creative advantages that they create; but most bookstores will struggle and ultimately fail if they do not appropriately adept to the marketplace. Price and convenience always rain supreme. So as an independent bookstore owner, if your only attraction is books, you don’t have an online retailer problem, you have a bookstore problem.
The Problem With Bookstores
Again, the real problem with bookstores is the bookstore model itself. It’s outdated and it was never really designed with inclusivity in mind. So an admission fee to enter an outmoded brick-and-mortar establishment is tantamount to charging a fee to enter a museum (actually, I think some bookstore lovers like this idea). But bookstores are not museums, at least not in the romantic sense that some would like to believe. Furthermore, when you add an admission fee to bookstores, you are effectively gating bookstores and turning them into places that are reserved for those with more disposable income.
So an admission fee, plus a higher price for books than you’d typically find at an online retailer? So what’s the point of the bookstore in this scenario, prestige? Bragging points by snobbish readers? Hence, this idea of paying a fee to enter a bookstore seems to rest on the romantic idea that entering a bookstore is a privilege. Think for a moment about all the connotations that this holds. And consider this question. At those bookstores that charge an entry fee while offering little more than books to buy and the opportunity to physically browse bookshelves, does this mean that the level of diversity of titles at those bookstores will decrease? After all, once a bookstore entry fee is put in place, it’s easier for a bookstore to identify its customer base and their tastes; on the other hand, it’s also easier to identity who does not represent their customer base. Therefore, shaping bookstores in this way amounts to, in some degree, shaping local thought, as the role of bookstores in this scenario becomes less about convenience and price and more about the unique distribution of curated titles. In theory, this doesn’t seem bad, but in practice?
Another common misconception about bookstores is that they hold the moral high ground, especially among readers. Fishman says that, “The moral high ground is to buy the book from the Strand.” But there is no “moral high ground” in the decision making of everyday book buyers. The ubiquitous site that Fishman doesn’t mention by name — Amazon — may have issues just like other large corporations, but paying publishers and authors on time isn’t one of these issues; and the level of exposure that Amazon offers to books and authors is good for readers. Fishman also says that he’s “willing to pay more in exchange for the intangibles that I’m offered by a store’s physical existence.” More power to him. But these intangibles are not universally important to everyone, especially those with less discretionary income or the time to peruse bookshelves on week nights in New York.
Fishman also admits that the idea of paying an entry fee to enter bookstores may be “an unsophisticated one.” Still, to his credit, he explores bookstores that are already charging an entry fee:
“In Porto, Portugal, visitors to the world-famous Livraria Lello bookstore pony up five euros (about $5.50 USD) for an entry voucher, the cost of which is then subtracted from a purchase,” Fishman says. “And Bunkitsu, a bookstore in Tokyo, charges customers the equivalent of a whopping fourteen dollars for the experience of browsing its inventory and exhibition space. (Included with the admission fee is access to a reading area, where patrons are permitted to kick off their shoes, help themselves to unlimited quantities of coffee and green tea, and read anything they like.)”
You will note that with these two bookstores, the entry fee is for an additional intangible. In the case of Livraria Lello, the entry fee actually functions as a discount on book purchases. And in the case of Bunkitsu, consumers are welcome to drink unlimited amounts of coffee and tea as well as visit the exhibition space; ergo it’s a bookstore and an exhibition space.
Fishman closes his piece by revealing even more bias:
“My father was a small-retail-business owner. He opened a wine-and-spirits shop in West Hartford, Connecticut, forty-five years ago and worked it around the clock with my mother until he handed it off to my brother when he retired. My grandfather helped out, my brother and I worked there when we were growing up, and our family’s dogs were the shop’s perennial mascots, beloved by our customers. I know what it means to remember the faces and names of regulars. I know the value of comfort and familiarity, of knowing that the place you go to buy your wares has a history and local roots. I know how important and reassuring the knowledge is that the people behind the counter can be trusted, that they are interested in your welfare as both a consumer and a human being.”
Fishman’s personal attachment to the value of an independently-owned family business seems blocks him from recognizing the fact that the experience he’s describing has nothing to do with the accessibility of books, the (inevitably) changing consumption habits, or consumers’ right of choice. While I value the “comfort and familiarity” that Fishman speaks of and appreciate his backstory, I also recognize that most people do not share his background of a family who owned an independent business, which means they’e not connected to independent bookstores with the same force and emotion.
The Final Reckoning
The romantic idea of bookstores that is held by Fishman and some independent bookstore owners demonstrates the delusion that underscores the bookstore problem. Bookstore owners have to reckon with the reality that the traditional concept of the bookstore no longer works the way it once did. Accepting this, bookstore owners must reimagine what the modern bookstore is. For starters, this means reimagining bookstores as community spaces that, in addition to selling books, play a more active role in the communities that they exist in. Today, books are easily obtainable online at a cheaper price, so books can no longer be the only draw (or perhaps even the main draw) to bookstores for consumers who are pressed for time and savvy about product pricing.
Three years ago, I was inside Books Are Magic, the then-new bookstore in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn that was opened up by author and former Court Street bookstore worker Emma Straub and her husband Michael Fusco-Straub and investors Eddie and Martine Joyce. Touring the bookstore, I was taken by the shop’s design. In between the front and back ends of the store, there was a large open space with audience seating, a clear nod to the reality that events would be a hallmark of Books Are Magic’s bottom line. There was also a spacious, well lit children’s book area. The children’s space felt more like a hang out spot than a reading area; I’m sure this was baked into the shop’s overall design. Cobble Hill and the adjoining Carrol Gardens and Gowanus neighborhoods are loaded with families with young children. Straub and her husband have two young children of their own, so it’s no surprise that extra care and thought was given to the children’s book area. The idea being that the space would double as an indoor park of sorts where parents rent space via book purchases. Smart.
Finally, the front end of Books Are Magic, where the choicest books rested, was the most intimate space in the entire shop, despite the fact that it was flooded with books. This is also by design. The takeaway that you get about Books Are Magic is that it’s a expansion of the traditional bookstore concept. In this regard, Straub and her husband are intentional in their plans for the bookshop to be more than a local attraction, they want Books Are Magic to be a tourist haunt, which means that the bookstore is a hyper-local spot. Smart again.
This conceptual reimagining of independent brick-and-mortar bookstores like Books Are Magic, The Strand, and McNally Jackson demonstrate that bookstores are not in battle with online retailers but rather the traditional bookstore model itself. Thus, those bookstores that shed the inflexibility of the traditional bookstore model and pivot to a community space model that offers more than books will thrive. In this new imagination of the independent bookstore, the books themselves may very well serve as the the price of admission, as patrons always know a good deal when they see one.
