Once a bookseller, always a bookseller

The first time I worked at a bookstore, I was student teaching in San Diego.

It was one of the best part-time jobs a fledgling English and journalism teacher could have. I was surrounded by words all day—spines and sentences and conversations that reminded me why stories mattered in the first place. I learned how readers browse. How they ask for recommendations. How a single book can meet someone exactly where they are.

I also learned something important about myself: I like being close to the story.

The second time I worked at a bookstore, I was getting divorced. My life was quieter in some ways and louder in others. As my ex and I carefully untangled our finances, I needed to supplement my income. Once again, books stepped in. I went back to the floor, back to shelving and hand-selling and helping people find the right thing at the right moment.

There’s something stabilizing about bookselling when you’re rebuilding. You show up. You listen. You help. You go home knowing you were useful in a very human way.

The most recent time I worked in a bookstore, I was on an unpaid sabbatical in Oklahoma—chosen, yes, but still messy. (That’s a whole other story, my hearts.) Once again, the bookstore took me in. I worked alongside people who became friends, confidants, and unexpected anchors. The kind of people who show up in the acknowledgments of my novels because they mattered that much.

If you’ve read Holland, My Heart, you’ve already met several of them in spirit.

Bookselling has quietly threaded itself through every major transition of my adult life: teaching, grief, divorce, reinvention, writing. Every time I needed steadiness, I returned to the same place—not because I had nowhere else to go, but because it felt like home.

And now I get to stand on the other side of the counter.

Now I’m the author whose book someone asks for by name.

That still stops me in my tracks.

Which is part of why, in 2026, I’m committing to a personal Indie Bookshop Challenge: one independent bookstore a month, all year long. Not as a gimmick. As a practice. Because indie bookstores are where community happens. Where queer books get face-out displays. Where staff handsell debut authors like proud matchmakers. Where stories aren’t just products—they’re relationships.

And here’s where you come in.

If you’d like to support my work, one of the most powerful things you can do is simple: ask for my books at your local bookstore.

I know it can be scary—I myself get sweaty palms every time I do it. It doesn’t take much, just my name and the title. Bookstores order what their readers ask for. Every request is a small vote for the kind of stories you want to see more of in the world.

Once a bookseller, always a bookseller. Just with my name on some of the spines now.

Next time you’re in your favorite local shop, ask for Holland, My Heart. And if you’re joining me in supporting indie bookstores this year, please let me know! I’m so glad we’re doing it together.