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.