Blinking Lemon

I had been holding out on buying The Books about selling books online. My budget is extremely tight, and the books all sounded so good and helpful, I didn’t want to have to choose just one. Wouldn’t they each have a slight different take, contributing new insights to my quest to succeed at finding books to sell? A few weeks ago, I got paid for a job, and the first - I mean it - the first thing I did was order the most recommended one from Amazon; and discover the other one was available from my library.

All along, I’d been telling myself that once I get these books, and read them, I will have a much better idea what bookselling is all about. People on the bookselling forums recommend them as basic start-up equipment, so I felt sure there would be a wealth of information to absorb: ideas I didn’t have the experience to discern on my own, forumlas for understanding postage reimbursement, or strategies for stocking books. Finally, the cartoon light bulb that hovers over my head would light up. Through the quality information in these books, I would be On My Way to being a Real Bookseller.

By now, you have probably guessed the punchline. Alas, there were no such revelations. Indeed, the internet is full of generous souls willing to tell you, for free, as much or more than I paid to read, plus they will answer your questions in kind emails full of encouragement just for you.

In fact, the aftermath of reading these books is the exact opposite of what I anticipated. I realize I am just alone, making mistakes for as long as I make them, uncertain of how to learn to do anything else. Only one of two conditions can be true: Finding saleable books absolutely as quick and certain as these books claim, and I am a big dummy; or finding saleable books is much harder and less certain than these books claim…and I am a big dummy. As my dear friend say, “It’s called the School of Hard Knocks, Brenna.” She’s Chicago. She tells it like it is.

I would rather have bought a book about online bookselling that said, here is how it is to re-sell used books online: You will mostly buy unsaleable books, for at least one year, maybe longer - possibly forever if you can’t admit to yourself you are book deaf. Some of you will figure out workable strategies for understanding your market and your scouting will improve. Some of you will never forge these strategies, and you will have a lot of lugging to do, clearing out the deadwood, and you should search your soul at the same time to see why you keep spending energy on something you are not succeeding at. You might sell 100 books in your first year, but you might only sell 10.

Sure, that book would not have held the promise of success, so easy and so close. But at least I wouldn’t feel crazy after I read it.

Despite a brief flirtation with no-name canned goods during the Carter Recession, American culture is religiously brand oriented. Other societies grapple with the nature of being in monastic silence, search for the mystical self through shamanic visions, or contemplate the shifting stars for clues revealing the human side of Mystery. In the U.S., we brand ourselves. It’s what we do.

Painfully aware as I am of the high stakes attending each and every customer contact, in the quest to create an indelible brand identity, the thought of twisty packing tape and uneven corners fills me dread and anxiety. With my brand the only thing standing between me and oblivion, the idea that customers may not even notice such things is too terrible to even contemplate! Plus, I’m just a natural fuss-budget; I like things to be pretty.

I also like things to be cheap. Pretty, Cheap and, it goes without saying, Good. Uh-oh. My criteria suddenly sound awful close to the only useful principle I have ever learned about project management. Everyone wants good, fast, cheap. In reality, you have to pick 2 of the three. Substitute pretty for fast in this equation, and any first year MBA can tell you that this project is headed toward a crisis.

Thus, I found myself hunched over the kitchen counter, struggling with the cheapest packing tape ever (you could not kidnap a kitten with this stuff); pre-scored bookmailers that I bought to save my hands from stapling (which hurts them), wielding a razor and straight edge. The results were not pretty. Not pretty at all.

Love my packages, love me. Perhaps this is an equation that needs re-examining. After all, this business is about purveying a product we are specifically instructed not to evaluate by its appearance. (I can find 3 syllable words to say anything, including “don’t judge a book by its cover.”) With all its blemishes, my packaging will absolutely deliver the book unscathed.

If the basis for personal identity has become so enmeshed in the commercial and manufactured, maybe twisty packing tape and obtuse corners are the only way to transcend the illusion of perfection that seduces fuss-budgets and MBAs alike. A little wabi-sabi in the mail. That’s what I keep telling myself.

Over the weekend, my first Amazon listings expired, and I received a nice note from to let me know. Unfortunately, the notifications appeared in my inbox as a cruel joke. I was crestfallen when I realized they were not “Sold, Ship Now” messages, but “Dreck - Relist?” messages. Oh, well. At least it was a trip down memory lane.

Currently, I have to admit, I’m not having any fun selling books.

Wait. That’s not entirely true.

Selling books is a stone-cold blast. What I am actually not having any fun doing is buying books that don’t sell. And don’t misunderstand…my expectations of fun are not as wild as, say, an ALA conference (if you know any librarians, you know I am not being ironic; those people can party). The name of the game, however, is bookselling and so far precious little of that is happening.

It’s not that hard to discourage me; but I don’t give up easily on things I want to do. This is a winning combination of personality traits; essentially, it means I’m likely to get to the finishing line, whining all the way. Futility is not a reason to give up, no matter what the dictionary says.

So, what am I going to do? This is where the author should list at least three, perky actions that will help her surmount her challenges, and teach herself what success is really all about.

To which I say, oh please. What can a flurry of action fix that time won’t also correct, and with a lot less effort on my part? Why do I have to rush out of this murky, formative time into the bright perfection of the correct answers, when I don’t know for sure that I’m even asking the relevant questions?

I don’t see a lot of things that surprise me. That doesn’t mean I don’t find a lot of delightful surprises - quite the contrary. Still, if you’re 43, grew up in a big city, and mis-spent your youth as thoroughly as I did, it’s just coy to act like the highs and lows of human behavior are unexpected.

I found some reprinted Victorian erotica today. That did not surprise me. I found 2 video games simulating how to kill people from helicopters. That did not surprise me. I found a book of stories selected by known literary giant, Shirley Temple. Still, not surprised.

The sweaty men who should have been bathing instead of shopping for books; the bag lady lying in the middle of the sidewalk sipping a cup of coffee in the most relaxed manner imaginable; the fact that I did not get any good books at the bag sale? Noteworthy, but well within the norm.

The patterns for needlepointing on FLYSWATTERS, though. That stopped me in my tracks.

Yes, needlepointing ON the flyswatters. Stitching through the mesh of the flyswatter. On purpose. Creating patterns of kitties and chickens and geese. Making flyswatters into objects of delight in your home.

And then killing flies with them.

I still can’t believe it. This is almost my best find ever.

The mental image I have of an unsung army of women, earnestly plying their needles, unaware of the artistic significance of MAKING NEEDLEPOINT OUT OF FLYSWATTERS - well, now that takes my breath away.

Shine on you crazy diamonds. Shine on.

I promise what you are about to read will all come back to my new endeavors as a bookseller, but it won’t start out looking related at all.

This year, I’m on my own again after ending a 17 year partnership that included 8 years of marriage. Financially, this means a loss of more than 50% to me (software trumps most other professions, still.)

When I dreamed up my scheme to focus on finding books to re-sell online, I imagined I’d be adding enough income to my life to pay for my own health insurance. I know - me and my crazy ambitions. I’d start out supplementing eBay sales with books in other venues, over time building the books as a more regular business, and keeping eBay for the occasional lucky jack-pot. Thus, I could afford to see a doctor if I was foolish enough to get sick or hurt.

This seemed like a pretty low-pressure scenario, fitting right in with my desire to change as little about my life as possible besides the - you know - husband. (A wonderful man, but his wife didn’t understand him.) My business has been steady for the last 4 years, and I had enough work on the books to cover the basics. For me, this was an unusually mature, prudent approach to managing change in my life.

Things have not gone according to plan.

A week before I was due to start my largest single job of the year, the client took their work elsewhere.  My work is fairly highly paid, but my market is a relatively small pond. With luck, I might pick up a few odd days, but replacing that job, on such short notice, just wasn’t going to happen.

Suddenly, selling books took the lead in my revenue streams. Clueless or not, I was in a position of having to make money appear out of nowhere. I decided to stick to my plan, and try to sell books.

Before you get your hopes up, be forewarned: it doesn’t turn out that through sheer determination and a heap of good luck, I was instantly successful, saved the farm, and lived blissfully ever after. That’s not the way this story goes.

The way this story goes is: I got a taste of how dead easy it is to spend money on books that are, essentially, roughage. I had time to discover that bookscouting is an even more elusive skill than I’d feared. I did sell a few books, which helped round out the other stuff I sold on eBay, which paid my essentials for the month. That’s it. I squeaked by.

In short, I am not a bookselling prodigy. Does this bode well for my future bookselling endeavors? In all likelihood, it doesn’t bode at all. Pressure doesn’t necessarily make outcomes more significant or meaningful. If it turns out I’m “book-deaf,” I’ll have to accept it. Meanwhile, I am better prepared to be clueless for quite a while longer. You can only learn things as fast as you can learn them.

My friend’s husband restores slot machines. Compared to what’s in her basement, I’ve got no complaints about the infrastructure required to store books. Over the past 3 months, though, I’ve been collecting a fair number of books, but not putting away a fair number of books.

The majority of my book buying is catch and release; I’m pretty brutal about what books I’ll keep once I do my post-sale reality checks. Despite this lean rate of accumulation, things have deterioriated enough that I feel discouraged about listing stuff and that’s counter-productive. Some of this is due to indecision about where to list it, or if its worth trying to sell. Mostly though, I’ve maxed out the shelf space I have available (I’ve got some stored in the kitchen cupboards). When it comes to cr*p lying around the house, the choices are black & white. Get rid of the stuff (not an option) or get more places to put it away.

So, tonight, I packed away my vintage fabric and quilts, to make shelf room for books. Fellas, let me tell you, this is a lady thing. After 17 years of sharing space with a non-quilt lover, I couldn’t wait to display carefully folded textiles in my new home. The FIRST object I bought for myself, when I knew my marriage was ending, was an antique quilt. When my friends visit, they say, “Oh look how great your quilts look there!” To people who don’t care about fabric, my angst probably sounds self-indulgently sentimental. But the ladies who know - and they know who they are - realize how sad it is to put these companions back in boxes.

Others booksellers may be following their bliss, but I seem to be following my OCD. I really wish I wanted to create things out of and sell vintage textiles more than I want to be a bookseller. My actions prove that’s not the reality. As soon as I made the decision to go for books, I was on it - following up on ideas, setting up my space, making plans - motivated to do unpleasant tasks that I avoid under other circumstances (like bookkeeping).

The shelf space I cleared is just a band-aid. It’ll hold maybe 120 books. Talk about bliss, though! Now, I can research a book, scan it, list it and PUT IT AWAY. A little bit of heaven right here in my living room. I can limp along, until the paychecks catch up with the work I’m billing now. Then, I’ll get a carpenter friend to bring one of the book closets up to capacity. The fabric and quilts will have to move yet again. I don’t want to think about it. It’s not all about me anymore. Its about the books.

Take it as read - I have no clue what I am doing. I know next to nothing about things I’m interested in - compared to people who actually know something about those subjects. Never mind what I don’t know about in the vastness of Things I know I don’t Know.

This fails to stop me from buying books. Books I’ve never seen or heard of before. Books in terrible condition, books that, honestly, could be just as worthless as the books sitting next them that I don’t pick up and buy.

Today, apparently, I became, at least momentarily, expert enough on really old books to decide to purchase the following:

Pictorial Scenes & Incidents Illustrative of Christian Missions ($6) Presbyterian Board of Publication; inscribed 1868.

How Lisa Loved the King ($6), George Elliot, E. Claxton & Co., Inscribed 1883

Rosetti, Burnes-Jones & Watts volumes ($6 each) from Masterpieces in Colour (Stokes or Jack, depending where you bought it).

In addition, I bought

Green Mansions, by WH Hudson, Illustrated by E. McKnight Kauffer ($6) Random House 1944 (slipcased)

Dulcy, A Comedy in 3 Acts by George S. Kaufman & Marc Connelly ($3)

There’s only one reason why I bought these books, and I’m not proud of it. I bought them because they have pretty pictures. This is something I’m going to have to work on, because I don’t think it’s any way to run a bookselling business. Like most artists, I’m a prisoner of love. It’s so hard to say “no.”

Twelve hours, and what do I have to show for it? Listings - 10 measly listings. Seven hundred twenty minutes. A total of 90 minutes loafing around time factored in. Even I can do this math. Seventy two minutes per listing - taking pictures, researching keywords, processing & uploading images, writing descriptions. An hour and 12 minutes per item, or about 18 minutes per task. When looked at that way, and considering that I’m learning, the time involved doesn’t seem so unreasonable. So…..Why do I feel like I GOT NOTHING DONE?

Turns out, eBay has a very high “Couldn’t You Just?” coefficient.

“Couldn’t You Just?” is a principle I learned while working at one of my first jobs, operating a not-at-all high-speed copier at a print shop located in a Student Union of a Big Ten University. In the early 80s, copy machines were just becoming readily available to the public, and even the slowest ones seemed like something out of Star Wars.

The shop had a very strict “first come, first served” policy during the rush between classes and at lunch time. Like a restaurant hostess, I kept a list of each person in line, and did their jobs in order. If you had just one page to copy, and were in line behind 3 jobs with 10 pages to copy, that was just too bad for you. In reality, people rarely waited longer than about 15 minutes, but often that seemed an eternity.

Confronted with this admittedly annoying circumstance, some customers showed justified exasperation owing to a genuine time constraint. Others were just impatient and entitled. Invariably, though, they’d plead with me, saying exactly the same words:

“Couldn’t you just…?”

Couldn’t you just do my job ahead of those other three people’s jobs? To supplicant, their logic was airtight. The copy machine seemed magically fast. It would barely postpone the other person’s job, and the benefit to them was obvious. They’d get their stuff and zip off in their rocket car to something Much More Important. It was impossible to understand why shoving such a tiny, little single page in front of other larger jobs was such a big deal. But my shop manager, an experienced press operator, understood.

He knew how little bits of time add up. He further knew that the quicker and slicker the technology looked, the more people underestimate the time it takes to operate it, and complete a task. He understood the “Couldn’t You Just?” factor very well. Thus, his humorless enforcement of the “First Come, First Served” policy.

eBay, as an environment, actively seeks to exploit the “Couldn’t You Just…” bug in human cognition. The big friendly button says “Sell,” when it could just as easily say, “Take 15 pictures, search completed auctions to see what will catch buyers attention, teach yourself a little HTML, wait while your wireless network figures out what to do with itself in the middle of uploading your pictures, lose all your work by refreshing a screen that doesn’t refresh post-data, realize you need to measure your item, examine it carefully for a flaw you missed which means you have just wasted the last 15 minutes because this item won’t sell in this condition, write the shortest description you honestly can, and Sell!”

I guess that wouldn’t fit on the button.

It is to eBay’s advantage to promote the idea that, in just a few clicks, I could be on my way to a small fortune, working at the easiest part time job ever. I fall for it every time.

In reality, 18 minutes per item really isn’t so bad, considering all the steps involved (granted, this is me we’re talking about), and how much I need to learn about simplifying some of the forms. I’d like to get the process down to 10 minutes, all steps included, but it will never be as instantaneous as it is in my imagination.

Now, I gotta go. I thought I could just list one more book before I go to work.

How do you do? I’m Brenna Hopkins, Serial Beginner.

Maybe not every kid hears “You’re so good at starting things,” but in my case it was practically how my parents introduced me. They were merely pointing out the obvious. A significant segment of the human race is aware of themselves as primarily starters, not finishers. In my observation, it’s the finishers who get all the credit, and there seems to be a general agreement - especially among finishers - that starting things you don’t finish is a waste.

It turns out, though, that being a serial beginner is what landed me here, in Bookthink.com’s May issue. (Well, that, and my big mouth.) I’ve needed for a while to add a second income stream - or, as we used to call it back in the ’80s, a second job - to my freelance career. Books kept turning up as good finds on my eBay rounds. Why not start selling mainly books? What could be easier?!

By now, I’ve learned there is little to fear from starting work on an idea that tickles my fancy. The fun of starting is so irresistible, it is well worth any embarassment that ensues from my inevitable mistakes. Plus, a few very important times. something I started grabbed hold and took my life somewhere I never imagined.

And I can tell this is one of those times.

Things aren’t necessarily happening easily, but I can see that even my mistakes are going right. That may sound like a riddle, but it’s quite practical. In the beginning, the things you get wrong will either discourage you or interest you. If a high percentage of your own mistakes leave you actively curious about solving them, that’s a sign you have wandered into an arena that will be rewarding for you. When you are on the right learning curve, you want to learn.

What I hope is that other beginners will find their way to this page, and take a little solace in my stumbling. If selling books online is for you, it won’t let you go. If it’s not, I bet you can guess what my advice to you would be.

Start something else.

When my former and I went to France, longer ago than you’d think, we used both our brains and a combined 15 years of French language classes to decipher the train schedule from Paris to Chickenville (Bourge en Bresse is famous for poulet). We proceeded to the correct track, boarded the sleek TGV, and prepared to settle in for the quickest 500 land miles ever. Imagine our surprise when, minutes before departure, 2 genteel North African women informed us we were in their seats. Non, non, we said, pointing to our reserved tickets. With genuine concern, they looked at each other, looked at us, and pointed to the error we’d made. Right track, wrong tunnel. We had 5 minutes to make our train, about 2 city blocks away, and we ran like mad.

In those few seconds, transiting between smug certainty and utter bewilderment, I made a tremendous discovery. French works. Say the secret word, and a waiter will indeed bring you a cup of steaming hot rocket fuel, whether he likes you or not. Sit in someone else’s seat on train, and you will learn that ma and mon really do mean MINE. I realized that I had endured years of repetitious language drills, while secretly believing it was all just a hoax. “No one,” I had, apparently, thought, “really talks this way. If I ever get to France, not one of these words will work.”

Last Friday, I got an e-mail that brought me back to that moment of discovery. “Why is Amazon e-mailing me?” I wondered, as I scanned my inbox, “Did I do something wrong?” (This is what I always think.) Then I saw it. “Sold!” “Ship Now!”

Huh? A book? Someone bought a BOOK? From moi?

Yes, indeed, in only one week, despite my total lack of adequate inventory system, B-flute packing material, or even a how-to manual, someone ponied up for my lovely copy of Sara Midda’s book on Provence. Apparently, Amazon is NOT a hoax, any more than France is. If you list a book that someone wants, sure enough, it will be sold. And you will receive money for it. In this case, about $30 smackers.

Nothing could have surprised me more. Or scared me more. What if I hurt the book? Is Saturday a business day? Will anyone care if I mail it in that perfectly sized, scrounged box from my eBay stash? And more importantly, now what am I going to write about? During the week between listing my first books and selling my first book, I’d been making notes about my experiences in this new found venture. Notes mostly along the lines of, can this really be a viable second business for me? Can I really earn any money at it? Mmm. Riveting.

Now, of course, I’m wondering, what if this is the ONLY AMAZON BOOK I EVER SELL? So, I still have my doubts. But I can add 2 items to the very short list of things I know, for sure, in life. French works; and Amazon.com sells books. And maybe, so do I.