Sonnet 87

So, as always, I’m a bit late to the party, but Borders is going out of business. It’ll shutter its doors permanently in September, and we’ll be out of a bookseller. Given that I haven’t patronized a Borders in a really long time because I have always been somewhat partial to Barnes & Noble (until they pissed me off) when it came to brick and mortar stores, I won’t necessarily miss it in the grand scheme of things. But in the smaller scheme of things, I will miss it a bit.

See, the Borders flagship store is in Ann Arbor, and it’s been a fixture in town since I can remember. I never visited when it was in the original store on State Street, but I certainly visited the hell out of the Liberty Street bookstore. Never mind that I didn’t buy much—I was a college student and really couldn’t afford to pay full price for a book when the Dawn Treader was just down the street—but I sure did love to browse and spend hours in that store.

It was a great place to go to when you wanted to skip class. If you were an English major like me, you were usually just down the street from Borders, anyway, so deciding between a lecture in Angell Hall and an hour perusing the medieval/Renaissance history section in Borders was a no brainer. I’d also spend a lot of time in the music section, listening to selections, trying to decide if paying $17.99 for a CD was worth it. Sorry to say, it usually wasn’t. While that contributes to the decline of stores such as Borders, remember: I was a student. But I considered it a good sanctuary, and if the moment was right, I’d buy a book there (that’s where I got my copy of my eternal favorite, Eric Ives’ biography on Anne Boleyn—I still remember sitting down to read it as the Starbucks across the street and listening to two dumb chicks saying ugh to Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire,” declaring that Joaquin Phoenix did a better job in Walk the Line. Uh, okay!

Borders was also good for Harry Potter release nights. My friend, siblings and I attend the release parties for the sixth and seventh books at the Arborland Borders (going into Ann Arbor for a release struck me as crazy then—still does given how bad it can be to park downtown); I still remember my brother and sister coming home from the release party for the fourth book and thinking, “Geez, how laaaaaame.” Hah, lo and behold, I was at Borders, all geeked out, five years later (we went to the release party for the fifth book, but at Barnes & Noble). For the sixth book, we waited amiably and chatted for hours, getting our books at around 1am and leaving happily. For the seventh book, we partied and then waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. It was nearly 3am when we looked at each and wondered if we should go elsewhere given the poor organization—after all, the crowd didn’t seem much bigger than it was in 2005, it’d been three hours since the official release, and we were still book-less. So we strategized and ended up heading to Meijer on Carpenter Road, buying the book in five minutes (there was whole untouched stack of them right at the front of the store) and zooming home to spend the rest of the night reading. Good times at Borders, but for the last book, they just didn’t deliver. I had fun at those parties, though, because they employees did make the extra effort even if the organization to actually buy the book was lacking.

IP and I would spend a few hours there while dating and later while visiting town, enjoying the expansive selection and the feel of being in Borders, in Ann Arbor. It was partly a ritual; whenever we’re in town, we have to go to Borders, and it’s weird to think we won’t have that option anymore since there’s no way we’re visiting before September. Even in these fiscally healthier days, we didn’t necessarily always walk away with a Borders purchase in our hands—as much as a book might seem interesting, we know we can get elsewhere for cheaper and we’re still kind of stingy when it comes to most things. Yet we’d always go because there was that familiarity with Borders—we knew where all the sections were (well, until they moved them) and could hide there for a while before it was time to go to Dominick’s or NYPD. Now? Michigan Book & Supply? Yeah, probably not.

Generally, there are smaller Borders memories. Like the time I ran into a fellow graduate student of IP’s and she couldn’t remember who I was, with a friend of mine guffawing in the background as I cheerfully asked when the graduate student’s prelims were coming (hint: she failed and was booted from the program). Or the time I spent the morning there on a Good Friday, having taken the day off from work in anticipation of a visit to IP in Colorado that fell through for some reason, reading and writing, producing this entry. Less notable events, but I spent a lot of time in that bookstore, and I know it was mostly good. So that it’ll be gone the next time I visit downtown Ann Arbor is sad. Who knows what will take its place?

Bye, Borders. It was fun while it lasted.

Well, maybe not now that I'm thinking about it . . . Bumper sticker by BookFiend

Or at least the perceived devolution. I fully admit I’m probably being more dramatic than I need to be, but that’s probably because everything went suddenly topsy-turvy when just one person rejoined the club (said person was a member for the one session the club met before I joined; in between those meetings, said person dropped out due to other commitments).

Said person is a close friend of every other book club member, who seemed to absolutely rejoice when this person came back because they all knew each other from the same place. Maybe said person is really a sweetheart, but when said person turns to you at the end of the last book club meeting and says, verbatim and quite coldly, “So where do you fit in here?” you’re taken aback. Everyone at the table just kind of sat for a minute, a little stunned, until one person described my connection to the member who asked me to join. Well, then. Perhaps this person thought the club was limited to those who knew each other from one certain place? I don’t know, it was weird and awkward. It’s not like I was the one who’d taken a year and a half off from the club, but I definitely felt like an outsider. And there are more polite ways to ask that question.

So anyhow, we settle on a date to meet and a book. I’m not thrilled when reading the book, but what the hell—I read what’s considered a classic and it’ll still be worth discussing even if I don’t like it. FSM knows I love to decimate books on the blog (though I am a bit gentler at book club, especially if I didn’t suggest the book in the first place—I know too well that people personalize books like whoa). But then the emails start coming in—said person can’t make the date we set. Well, another chimes in, let’s change it to the next week because said person MUST be there! Yes, let’s! So I agree because I can do it, no problem, though I am kind of rolling my eyes at the sudden Regina George status. Then said person suggests two restaurants—shared food restaurants, and that’s another post you’ll be seeing soon on Sonnet 87, dear reader—which don’t sound too appealing (even with the shared food aspect aside). I look at the menu of the  restaurant ultimately chosen, go “Ehhhh . . .” because it’s totally unappetizing, and bail. I needed to hit the gym anyway because IP and I were going out that Friday night. No big loss.

But then, oh. Oh, the book selection for August. Chosen by said person. Oh, geez.

Like I said, the point of a book club is to read stuff you’ll never read otherwise, but do you notice that there seems to be a certain type of book that usually gets selected by book clubs all over the country? See my initial fears about joining a book club. Take a look at the top picks on Goodreads. They follow the lead of Oprah’s Book Club or the Today Show Book Club and end up choosing books that are usually, well, treacle. Or the kind of reading that Stephen King recently commented on when lamenting the demise of the short story in The Atlantic:

And so many of the 400-pagers are disposable in themselves. When I see books by some of the suspense writers that are popular now, I think to myself: “These are basically books for people who don’t want to read at all.” It just kind of passes through the system. It’s like some kind of fast-food treat that takes the express right from your mouth to your bowels, without ever stopping to nourish any part of you. I don’t want to name names, but we know who we’re talking about.

So, yeah. That 400-page suspense book that’s like a fast-food treat? It seems like we’re reading that kind of book for August. When I was told by a friend (the person who helps me fit in, I suppose) what we were reading, she almost seemed apologetic, like it was something she didn’t want to read, either. She termed it as a summer read, which I translate to disposable (TM Stephen King). Nothing that’ll impress me with its literary somersaults or feats. I could be wrong, though, it could be fantastic, but seriously: genre (with the exception of King because he’s fantastic at developing his characters—and I feel he pushes the boundaries of his genre and doesn’t really fit into horror anymore) doesn’t do much for me. That’s why I prefer it if a book is termed literary fiction—it could be anything in the world, it’s so hard to quantify, and that’s how it should be. Good literature shouldn’t fit into neat little packages. It should be expansive, roaming, taking risks, challenging you to think. A book that just makes you go, “Well, that was a fun roller coaster. What’s next, what’s next!?” isn’t worth it. If a book doesn’t make me think, it’s failed (and again, as a hat tip of King—he makes me think; see why Pet Sematary freaks me the hell out).

Snobby? Yes. But I see reading as a challenge because I want to be shown new ways of playing with words and themes and plots and characters. I want to learn and figure out ways in which I could become a better writer from the lesson it imparts. If I read something I can toss aside at the end (and I know this is something you can’t avoid 100 percent of the time), then I feel like I’ve spent my valuable time reading something akin to watching a trashy reality show—so little time we have here and I spent it doing this? What frustrates me about the book club choice is that everyone thought we should take a break and read something “fun,” to which I say: “No! Reading is almost always fun—does the thinking part make it not fun? What the fuck are you talking about?”

But I will go. I will go to August’s meeting and, if necessary, I will decimate the book (again, in a gentle way). If it’s good, I will post on my blog and fully admit to the world that I was wrong. But if it’s the equivalent of Vertical Run, which was fine when I was 17 but I wasn’t shy about pointing out what didn’t work when I’m in my late 20s (at the time of the linked post’s publishing), then I probably won’t like it. It’s one thing to be nostalgic about a book that you read as a kid and another thing to read something in your early thirties that seems very, very similar and actually enjoy it. I’m trying to go into it with an open mind, but I admit: I’m biased because a) genre I don’t like and 2) chosen by person who is totally changing the dynamic of the club and didn’t really seem to want me there. But I can admit when I’m wrong, so here we go.

Then again, maybe I’ll like it enough. Maybe if I don’t, the criticisms I offer won’t be taken personally. Maybe we’ll have a good discussion and said person will not act like I’m invading their tree house. Maybe it’ll go back to normal after some initial rough spots.

But I’m still going to suggest Swamplandia, The Borrower or The Tiger’s Wife for September. Hell, I’d suggest Matterhorn because I really want to read it, but it’s probably too long for everyone’s taste. And too serious. (Okay, there I go again, I’ll stop! I’ll stop! For now.) We’ll see. But I’ll be damned if I let this devolve into a suspense/chick-lit book club without a fight.

And I draw the line at reading Jodi Picoult. Period.