Blinking Lemon

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.”