The business of hope

"What’s this going to be then?”

“A bookshop.”

“Oh, that’s a shame, we were hoping for a KFC.”

So went my conversation with a curious passer-by last week, as I was busy building bookcases in our soon-to-be shop in Portishead. 

“A bookshop? (Sigh). There was one here before.”

“Oh really? What happened?”

“Didn’t last.”

“That’s a shame. Hopefully we’ll do a little better."

(Pause)

“I give you a year.”

So went my conversation with the harbinger of doom, who popped in later that same day to offer her words of encouragement.

If I were a superstitious man, I’d see these as bad omens. But then again, if I were a superstitious man, one living through what seems to be the End Days with the world falling apart around me and the hopes of the UK pinned on the tax-cut-tastic, pork market fantasies of Liz Truss, I’d have headed for my underground bunker a long time ago. Instead, I’m choosing to see these book sceptics as readers-in-waiting. I’m taking the Leslie Knope approach to life. Because frankly, it’s that or collapse in a puddle of tears, like a sentimentally soggy Wicked Witch of the West.

We may all be sitting in our handcarts, helmets on, hanging on for dear life on our way to somewhere warmer (yes, even warmer than here this summer), but I’ve got to believe that there’s a way out of it. We all have. Because frankly, belief is all we’ve got at this point, belief and cups of now terrifyingly expensive tea.

Nobody opens a bookshop to get rich. If they do then they’ve been badly advised. Bookshops are passion projects, built on memories of reading under the covers, hiding between the library stacks, torchlight and tired eyes, smudged pages and unexpectedly adult descriptions of horse riders becoming better acquainted in Cotswold stables. They are the dreams that appear through the haze of another late night project delivery meeting or early morning under-armpit commute. They are the fantasy workplace of everyone who loves books and the business plan of only a foolish few.

It’s in this spirit of joy and wonder, naivety and optimism, that we decided to open our second shop this year. And it’s in this spirit-squared that we decided to move our existing shop to a new premises, three times the size, at the same time. It was also before the economy began its sprint towards the precipice and our government began their sprint towards doing absolutely sod all. Still, I’m sure it will all be all right. Won’t it?

Nobody opens a book shop to get rich. If they do then they’ve been badly advised. Book shops are passion projects, built on memories of reading under the covers, hiding between the library stacks, torchlight and tired eyes

Business gurus—you know, the ones on LinkedIn posting humble brags about the bags under their eyes being the result of their 4:30 a.m. starts #motivation #entrepreneur #theearlybirdcatchestheohshutupyoupreeningnumpty—they love to say a recession is the best time to start a business. They reference General Motors and AirBnB. They talk of a trial by fire. All of this is excellent news, particularly when we won’t be able to afford to put the heating on. But it does depend on one fairly critical thing—choosing a business that people want.

In a recession luxuries are the first thing to go. New cars, holidays, designer clothes, and so on, and so on. When it’s heating or eating, it becomes necessities only. So how far down the so on and so ons do books lie? As much as I love them, even I can’t argue that books are a necessity for those in need of food. The number of people who can afford to buy books is undoubtedly going to shrink. But for those who can afford them, perhaps there’s reason to hope that they’ll carry on buying them in the same quantity; perhaps there’s a reason to believe they’ll even buy more.

When life gets bleak, we need a release; we need a relief from the mundanity and gloom. We need a little joy. If we’re priced out of holidays and thriftily reducing our nights out, then where will we fill our hearts and top up our hope? When we can’t overthrow our inept overlords or burn down the whole blinking thing, then where can we release our frustrations and fears? Where will we find our beacons and dispose of our monsters? Where can we do all of that for just £10?

During the last recession, in 2009, Obama’s Dreams From My Father provided the balm, while Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight offered the escape. Books provided an affordable alternative to the harsh reality of life. And just as then, so will be now. In 2023, there will be another balm and there will be another escape; there will be a crime or a horror that reflects the brutality of many lives; there will be a romance or adventure that puts a much needed smile on tired faces; there will be a bonkbuster that gets the country talking and there will be an epic that speaks of the times. There may even be a book for KFC fans and harbingers of doom. I hope there is. I have to believe there will be.