17/52 :: the kathleen kelly dream.

Pssst: Since I wrote this post a few days ago, I've entered The Bookshelf to win a $100,000 grant from Chase. If you're so inclined, would you consider voting for us? We need 250 votes to move on the next round, and you can vote here. Thank you for your continued support of me and my dream. 

--

I've wanted to be Kathleen Kelly since before it was cool -- since I was about 15 years old, as a matter of fact. I watched her on-screen in her cardigans and Keds, and I thought: Hey! That's an achievable goal. I can do that. 

And you know what? I can. I didn't really think it was going to happen, but here I am, almost 15 years later, running a bookstore and wearing the occasional cardigan. Dreams do come true. They're just harder than anyone tells you they'll be.  

We started doing birthday parties at the store. We've only hosted two so far, but they're fun and chaotic, and never do I feel more like Kathleen than when I'm turning on the store lights and prepping for story time with the You've Got Mail soundtrack playing in the background. I actually enjoy working Saturdays -- and the occasional birthday party -- because that's when this job most feels like the movies. Kids are running around; customers come in who I know by name; we're busy, busy, busy. It's dream-like, no doubt about it. 

Tuesdays through Fridays tell a slightly different tale. Those days include countless meetings, long hours checking email (so many emails), updating social media, running to the bank and to the post office. My weekdays never seem to end, until suddenly, they do, and I'm never quite sure what I accomplished until I look back at my daily to-do lists.

I think, sometimes, I forget this was a dream of mine. I forget how lucky I am, how incredibly fun this all is. I forget, because it's hard. But I guess I want to remember -- in case one day it all comes to an end -- how much I've enjoyed this adventure.

One day, I'll be able to tell me children I owned a bookstore. Maybe they'll get the chance to work there during the summers, to be a part of the business themselves. Or maybe we'll be long gone from Thomasville, and the bookstore we'll be a part of our past. It doesn't matter, really. I'll be able to tell them I lived my dream, and I'll have evidence. It will prove, I hope, that they can live out their dreams, too.

So yes, there are bills and employees to train, and long, hard, chaotic days. But there are also Saturdays, when the You've Got Mail soundtrack reminds me: This is all just incredibly cool.

16/52 :: you take the good, you take the bad.

You take the good

You take the bad

You take them both

And there you have

The facts of life.

The facts of life.

--

A couple of weeks ago, before our Washington D.C. trip, before my employee resigned, before the proverbial poop hit the fan, before, before, before, I told Jordan my new mantra was, "You win some; you lose some." That particular week, I had made huge progress in a meeting for our One Book program coming this fall, but I'd also sent out a store email with rather large errors and confused the dates and times for two big shop events. The old Annie would have beaten herself up over the mistakes, but the new Annie knows: In entrepreneurship, mistakes are inevitable and frequent. 

You win some; you lose some. 

So last week, while Jordan and I were finally in D.C. on a trip we'd been planning since November, it shouldn't have surprised me to get an email from an employee, resigning from her post as the shop's resident social media and event guru. This employee has been a life saver these past nine months, but retail isn't for the faint of heart, and turnover -- no matter how hard you try -- is high. These are jobs with big responsibilities and little pay, and I know often, The Bookshelf is a stop on someone's journey to a job that's bigger, better, more in line with their career goals. 

All of this, then, is just life, but that doesn't make the news any easier when it's 11:30 p.m. on your last night of vacation, and you're realizing the summer -- which was supposed to be laid-back and relaxing -- just got a whole lot more stressful. 

I have been scrambling this week to fill the position, to get people in the store who I think will love it as much as I do. And you know? It's been okay. I think that's what I'm learning from all of this: The good, the bad. It's going to be okay. Maybe not perfect, maybe not better than before, but okay. Problems are solvable, and if I learn to take things in stride, the little blows that come with this job won't be as earth-shattering -- they'll just be hiccups in the growth of my business. 

When I was younger, I would watch reruns of The Facts of Life on TV Land. I've been humming the theme song to myself for weeks: "You take the good; you take the bad; you take them both; and then you have..." The facts of life aren't easy, but they also aren't going anywhere; these aren't details and struggles we outgrow. 

Last month, my family was able to go to the beach together for a few days. It was incredibly life-giving and fun, but I watched as my dad handled stresses of both work and home -- even on vacation. My grandmother had taken a fall, and there we were, six hours away, unable to help or get there quickly enough. My dad didn't mope about the hours he had to spend on the phone or the time it took to handle those life emergencies. That's just it; they're a part of life, and they don't go away just because you're on vacation or you're not mentally prepared to handle them. 

This is life. And it includes trips to the hospital and emergency surgeries and employees who quit and visits to the beach and vacations with your husband and family members in poor health. It includes job interviews and afternoons paying bills and good books and burnt dinners and phone calls and texts and emails you don't want to receive. 

You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both, and you know? It's all going to be okay.  

14/52 :: indie bookstore day.

I posted the above picture to Instagram after we finally arrived home from the bookstore on Saturday night. It received, at last count, 81 "likes" and a half dozen kind comments -- one of my more popular Instagram posts, by far. That's pretty cool, and if you've been reading this blog for any significant period of time, you know how long it's taken to get to this place; you know what a winding road Jordan and I took to entrepreneurship and all it entails. The picture, then, is a nice happy ending (or beginning) to that story.

But in the essence of full disclosure, this weekend -- the first-ever nationally-recognized Independent Bookstore Day -- wasn't all sunshine and balloons. In fact, the week leading up to Saturday was one of the more stressful in my brief entrepreneurial career. One of my two employees had a family emergency, and the other is in school part-time; their absences left me alone in the shop for much of the week, with bills to pay, social media to run, and loose event ends to tie up -- a stark reminder that maybe, just maybe, I'm in a little over my head. My mom came to my rescue on Tuesday, helping to put up new displays and greet customers, but otherwise, I felt a little like a one woman show. And despite some incredibly stellar sales days and my penchant for independence, it was not fun. Juggling all the balls alone never is.

Friday night, Jordan and I cut our date night short to create a dozen literary-inspired wine labels and to prep the store for the big day. It's always fun to be in the store together, and as Jordan put away drinks and I drew on chalkboards, he reminded me what joy I get from preparation, how the day before a party has always been my favorite. (I would, to my chagrin, much rather prep a party than attend one.) 

So much of running the bookstore is a lesson in hospitality. A few years ago, I had people in my home multiple times a week. I hosted countless parties. We celebrated milestone upon milestone with pancakes and potlucks and board games. It was, as Jordan frequently puts it, "the year of the pineapple."

That doesn't happen much anymore. Instead, this month, we hosted a dozen events at the store. We were open late several evenings, greeting authors and new-to-us customers. I pushed my small staff to their limits, and I've been reminded, over and over again, that hospitality isn't just about opening my home. It's about the atmosphere I create at the store.

So this weekend, we had a party. And it wasn't at our home, and it wasn't with our friends. We celebrated at the store, surrounded by strangers. Everyone was happy. We served coffee and cupcakes and wine. There were prizes and balloons and matching t-shirts. All in all, I suppose it was as wonderful as the Instagram picture suggests. But all the filters in the world don't change how stressful this job can be, how hard it is day in and day out to run a business and a life.

Next week, fingers crossed, I'm headed to the beach for a few days. I need it. I love running the store, and I love selling books, but even those of us living out our dreams need a vacation every now and then. It's been a crazy few weeks, and Indie Bookstore Day was a nice reminder that if push comes to shove, I can try to do it all, perhaps even successfully -- but that doesn't mean I should.

And a side note, to those of you who visited your locally-owned, independent bookstores on Saturday: Thank you. This past Saturday was a success not because of all the preparation and legwork we did, but because of people like you who chose to show up. Indie Bookstore Day was important for me as an entrepreneur because it showed me I'm not in this alone, and the work I do, while perhaps never reviewed in a staff meeting or recognized with a pay increase, is important and appreciated by the people who choose to shop there. You made Indie Bookstore Day a pleasure, and that smiling face in the picture up there? It's there because of you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

7/52 :: shopping locally.

Last Saturday, a young 20-something came into the shop looking for a particular title. The book was one I wasn't familiar with, one we wouldn't typically carry on our shelves, and sure enough, a quick search informed me we didn't have it in stock. As usual, I offered the customer the option to special order, which with us takes about two to three days (depending on the snow our northern distributors are experiencing). It's a turnaround that's fairly quick -- Barnes and Noble normally takes about a week -- and our prices are comparable to the bigger chain stores, though not, of course, to... well, you know. 

"No, thanks," the customer said. "I'll just find it online for cheaper, probably from Amazon or something."

"Oh, okay," I found myself replying. "Thanks for shopping locally!" (Southern passive-aggression is a real thing, y'all.) 

The story Nora Ephron told in You've Got Mail is true, only now, the Fox Books of the world no longer exist. The independent bookstores are thriving, but our competition isn't Barnes and Noble or Books A Million, not really, not anymore. Our competition is this online business we don't know too much about, a business we can't research or challenge.

I try not to judge Amazon shoppers. The Internet is full of people who talk about supporting the local businesses in their towns, but they consistently link back to products on Amazon, and I understand why. Bloggers get a small kick-back from Amazon, and I know what it's like to want to get even the tiniest bit of compensation for the work and writing we do. So again: I try not to pass judgment on Amazon shoppers and supporters. 

The truth is, though, that Amazon hurts the business I chose to buy and run. And there is perhaps nothing quite as hurtful as a customer telling you -- to your face -- that they'd rather shop quickly and easily and cheaply than enjoy the overall experience of the store you have curated and loved. 

It's not personal, it's business. So says Joe Fox, and honestly? I agree. I don't take those customers' comments personally. But I do wonder if they know what they're saying. If you need a book more quickly and less expensively than I can get it to you, I understand. But you do have choice. We don't have to have our packages delivered by drones on a Sunday morning. We could wait and shop with the people who live and work in our communities. We could support the people we call our neighbors. We could choose to exercise our patience and order from businesses we know and trust because ultimately, it's better for our neighborhoods and better for us. 

The Bookshelf has been a part of my life for nearly three years now. I've spent the last one and a half years in Thomasville, working alongside people I now call my friends and neighbors. And maybe it's a small town thing, but most of them understand the "shop local" movement. They understand why it's better to support a locally-owned business than it is to support a franchise or an online shop. They frequently choose my store over a cheaper option, and I'm grateful for it. 

But there are still folks who don't understand why my books are more expensive or why the collection I offer doesn't compare to the one they can find at Barnes and Noble. 

So let me explain. Let me offer just a few ways you can make your local shopping experience even better. 

- Let us help you. My selection is never going to compare to a larger chain store. The books we stock are chosen entirely by me and my two staff members. We order books based on our personal tastes, national bestseller lists, fellow independent bookstore owners and leaders, and customer recommendations. Our shelves are highly curated; what you find here, you won't necessarily find anywhere else. It's why I love shopping independently when I travel; I always find something new I wouldn't find in my own town. When you shop at a local, independently-run bookstore, do the staff favor: Don't limit yourself to that one book you're just dying to read. The fact is, we might not have it. The title you're looking for may be obscure or out-of-date or just not on that particular shop's shelves. Ask us for it, by all means! But if we don't have it, consider ordering it from us. Better yet, ask us for a comparable title. We can probably help you find something similar we think you might love. We are great at personal recommendations. It's what sets us apart, and it's why we're still in business. 

- Feign interest. Locally-owned shops are frequented by all kinds of folks. We love the wanderers, the ones who poke their heads in the door just to see what we're about. We find it hard to believe, but we know: Not everyone's a book lover. That's fine. But do us a favor, and if you're poking around, or if you're entering the premises with the sole purpose of finding a clean restroom, please do the proprietor a favor, and look around. Explore the shop. Make an effort to at least feign interest. You never know what treasures you might find, and more and more bookstores are offering a wider selection of gift product. Those products help us stay in business, so we love for you to buy those, too. If you're not a book lover, the book buying experience can still be for you.

- Shop smart. The books you find in any indie store are going to be more expensive than the very same titles at Target or Sam's or Amazon. Those big box stores have worked out deals -- some fair, some not-so-fair -- with publishing companies, and by buying and stocking in bulk, they receive better discounts than we do. It's a part of the business I'm still coming to terms with, but please know: The prices on the back of the book are the prices we have to charge, both to run our business and to maintain relationships with our publishers. For reference, adult paperback books typically run anywhere between $15 and $18; hardbacks are more expensive and run from $22 to $28, depending on their size. Those prices have been set by publishing companies, and they ensure authors and sales reps and printers and marketing personnel get paid fairly. There's not much I can do about the prices of the books I sell. Please shop knowing those prices are entirely comparable to the books you'll find at Barnes and Noble or Books a Million, but they're never going to be comparable to what you can find on Amazon. Please don't be surprised when I tell you the price of a book, and above all, refrain from telling me where you can find it for less. I already know. (The same rule, by the way, applies to shopping at local boutiques and clothing stores. Don't roll your eyes at the prices, or say you can find the same thing for less at TJ Maxx. An independently-run shop can't even begin to compare to a discount clothing store.)

- Take pictures. I love when customers pull out their phones to snap pictures of the store. Our staff works diligently to ensure we've created a colorful, lively atmosphere in our shop, and customers photographing those details makes me one happy girl. The customers who go above and beyond, though, ask our permission. It's such a small gesture, but it's kind, and it shows they understand what we're up against. I can't tell you how many times I've noticed a customer not-so-discreetly snapping a picture of a book title they can buy online -- for less money -- later. Please: Don't be that person. Instead, take pictures of our displays. Share them on social media. Be a voice for us! Advertising is expensive, and it's far more effective for you to tell your friends where we are and how they can support us. Word of mouth is our best friend, and a lot of it now happens online. 

- Talk to us. The only way we can beat Amazon is by offering what they can't: Customer service and a place to hang out. We are desperate to become your community gathering place. It's why our store has an event at least once a week. It's why we read stories to your kids and invite local authors and give you stamps when you need to mail a letter. We want you to spend your time with us; local businesses are dying to be your Cheers. I love customers who come in and want to chat about the book they just read. I want to know what they thought and if they told their book club about it and how many copies I should order for their friends. I want to tell you what I just finished reading, and I want us to be respectful of each other's tastes. I want my bookstore to be a safe place for you to gather to think and debate and visit and read. I am trying to learn your name, and I'd love for you to learn mine. Grab a book off of a staff recommendation shelf and tell me if you loved it too. These are the things Amazon can't take from us -- they're trying, with Good Reads, and I understand why people love it. But nothing beats interacting with an actual human being. It's messy and it's funny and it's where good stories come from.

Attend events. Follow small businesses on social media. Spread the word. Put your money where your mouth is. We're all on a budget, and the Internet has spoiled us: We want it cheap, and we want it now. Shopping locally reminds us there's a better way, a way you can spend money right in the heart of your community and see it reap the rewards. Small businesses employ your neighbors and offer gathering places; their store selections are probably hand chosen with your community in mind. (I can't tell you how many books I stock not because I love them, but because I know Thomasville will love them. I choose books and gifts I believe my community will love. I shop with them in mind, and in turn, I hope they do the same for me.) 

Owning your own business is a labor of love. I imagine it's a lot like caring for a baby, and like a new mom, I've had to grow accustomed to ill-fitting advice or well-intentioned opinions. But like a new mom, I can stand up for myself and let a customer know when they've crossed the line. Telling me you'd rather shop for a cheap book on Amazon than wait two days for me to get it to you at an average price is where the line falls. Those words aren't just hurtful, they're bad for my business. I want you to know where you're money goes. I want you to know how much it means when you choose to do your business locally.

Most of my readers here aren't in my neck of the woods. That's okay. Shop locally right where you are. I guarantee there are shops in your neighborhood who could use and would love your support. I know it's faster and easier to shop online. But faster and easier isn't always better. Slow and steady, remember, wins the race. 

6/52 :: on work as work.

I spent last week in Asheville, soaking in my first-ever booksellers conference. Jordan and I went together; the event had been on my calendar for months, and I was desperate not only to be surrounded by fellow "book people," but to spend some alone time with Jordan, to talk and dream and think together.

Wouldn't you know, then, that I woke up Sunday morning with a head so congested and heavy I thought it might fall right off? I spent the entire conference sneezing like a madwoman, soggy Kleenex stuffed in my pockets, fellow booksellers avoiding me as if I had the plague.

It was less than ideal. 

The week was supposed to be, in my estimation, magical. (I am what you would call a "high expectations" person.) I was surrounded by mountains and experienced booksellers. I came home with 40 new advanced reader copies to tackle. John Green gave us all a pep talk! But with chills and a runny nose, work becomes just work, and the conference just another conference.

My life as a bookseller and entrepreneur is complicated. I am living my dream, but most days, I just feel tired. It's a shame, because if I ever take a moment to think about it, what I'm doing is pretty cool. Unfortunately, those moments for reflection are few and far between when bills need to be paid and a fraudster uses stolen credit cards to spend $5,000 at your tiny bookstore. 

Last week, I entered a hotel ballroom filled with 500 other bookstore owners and booksellers, and I was just as intimidated by these fellow "book people" as I was by the attorneys I met at the legal conferences I used to attend. At first glance, I was the youngest person in the room by decades. In some classes, I was the most conservative; in others, the newest. Independent bookstores, I am pleased to tell you, run the gamut, and because each store has its own unique personality, so do the people who own them.

I am learning, then, that life is mostly about figuring out who you are and then being that person. The "good for you, not for me," mantra Amy Poehler gave us all last fall resonates in the business world, too. What's good for someone else's store might not be good for mine. (Or it might be, who knows?) I might fit in with the other booksellers I meet; I might not. What's important, I think, is to keep my head down and do the work.

Winter Institute wasn't a waste. I came home with new books to read and new tricks to try. I'm armed with knowledge I didn't have before, and I've got some fun events up my sleeve after being inspired by other bookstores across the country. I learned a great deal about how to run my business, and in a world that can feel small, I was reminded I'm one of many trying desperately to bring books to the masses.

Life is what we make it, and it doesn't always feel very magical in the moment. My work conference was like a lot of other work conferences I've been to, but on the other hand? It wasn't dull. And I took notes I knew I'd actually use. I met a couple of people who -- given time -- I think I could really connect with over this whole bookselling thing. I visited a new city, and I was reminded I'm really pretty lucky, even when the bank account is low and snot is running down my nose. 

Work, it is always important to note, feels like work. It is work. But if I could just keep loving this thing I do 60 hours a week? Maybe it will be magical after all. 

5/52 :: friendship.

Thank you for the most loving, encouraging comments on my last essay. It was a difficult piece to publish, as Jordan and I are still very much in the middle of our faith story, but I have always found comfort in putting pen to paper, and publishing the essay provided me with a great deal of relief. "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." So said Flannery O'Connor, and so I believe. Thanks for allowing me to do that safely here.

--

When we moved to Thomasville a year ago, I thought friends would happen not only eventually, but quickly. We visited church after church, and I poured myself into work, and thanks to those avenues, we met some of the most lovely people. But because of time and energy and yes, I suppose, introversion, it's taken longer than I thought to really cement my place outside the store's walls. And I had begun to think of friendship in terms of my old life versus my new one, which -- when I think about it -- wasn't fair to either.

I think when we leave one life behind for the next, the past life -- the one we're done with, the one we're trying to get over -- grabs hold of us, like bubble gum on the bottom of a shoe. It's sticky and messy and memorable, and it's hard to let go. Our years in Tallahassee were precious and good. They were hard, but the past always looks a bit rosier than reality, and moving beyond those friendships and those memories has been more difficult than I imagined it would be. 

Those friendships from my Tallahassee years? I don't have any intention of moving beyond them; they are still a big part of my life, even from afar. But I think I'd be making a mistake if all of my community was located away, out of my physical reach. We all do this, with the Internet and with the ghosts of our old lives, and although it's comforting, it's also a little less real. There's no mess, no real risk. No vulnerability is required to cling to the things we already know.

Last month, I worked up the courage to email some women in Thomasville about starting a book club. It should have been a no-brainer: I run a bookshop, and I love to read, and my Tallahassee book club was a huge success (and is still going strong, if I'm not mistaken). But for some reason, it took me months to become brave enough just to ask if there was any interest. When I'd finally dared to compose a draft email, I complained to Jordan I didn't know anyone to invite. 

He came up with a list of ten. 

Too often, we get in the way of our own successes. Fear stops us in our tracks and prevents us from moving forward. I thought I could come up with, at the most, five names. Jordan named 10, and I eventually invited 14. Twelve RSVP'd yes. 

My success rate won't always be that high, I know. The book club hasn't even had its first meeting yet, so I have no idea who will come and who won't. But just the responses were reminders that life isn't nearly as hard as I make it. Neither is community. 

A year after moving to Thomasville, I'm seeing signs of new life. I'm watching the seeds of friendship I planted in 2014 sprout up and grow. And the truth is, I'm not sure what kindred spirits will rise up out of this town. But I didn't know what kindred spirits would come from Tallahassee, either. I forget those relationships took time and effort; it was months, years, before I developed the friendships I now treasure so much.

I celebrated my 29th birthday this week. Monday, some girls came over to eat cake and ice cream and watch The Bachelor. They're all a little younger than I am -- one even made a joke about women in their 30s, the nerve! -- but it's fun. It's silly and ridiculous, and it's community.

Wednesday morning, I got up early to meet a girl for coffee and Scripture reading. And we don't go to the same church, and I'm far behind on the reading, but that's community. 

Tonight, I'll get together with a few business women in town, women who I met through the bookstore but who have become -- dare I say it? -- friends. Some of them are older than me, and they all have children, and life is so crazy we can't get together on a regular basis, but that's okay. It's community. 

This week, I've received cards and gifts and texts from all over this country, and I was reminded that the effort we put into friendship matters. It's worth the time and the vulnerability and the discomfort and the frustration. True friendships reap infinite rewards, and I'm so grateful I've got these little pockets of community in Boulder, in Jacksonville, in Kansas City, in Birmingham, in Chicago, in Nashville, in Montgomery. 

But I'm grateful today, too, for the community I've started to build here. I'm grateful for Bachelor nights and business meetings, for book club emails and dinners out. I'm grateful for friends of all ages and life stages, for all the people I've met thanks to a little bookstore in downtown Thomasville I now call mine. 

Tuesday, a friend stopped by the store to bring me a gift for my birthday. And I couldn't believe how much a small thing could mean. I couldn't believe I'd spent a year in Thomasville thinking I didn't have community, when -- wouldn't you know it? -- I'd been building it all along.

on supporting makers + doers.

When you own a shop, I think it can be easy to get bogged down by the consumerism of it all. I worked the Saturday after Christmas and warred against myself, first wondering how on earth people could still be shopping, then rejoicing, of course relieved that they were. It can be conflicting work, retail. 

Then two weeks ago, my mom and I traveled to Atlanta for market, and we found some lovely, American-made lines for the shop: wooden blocks, book-inspired jewelry, delicious shortbread, those Annie B's caramels you all love. And somehow, our Atlanta trip made it all better: seeing the artists, meeting the people who make the goods we sell. It made me feel like we're making a difference, like we're doing a good work. 

Growing up, my dad would pray before dinner every night, asking God to bless all the hands that helped our meals reach the table: the farmers, the truck drivers and delivery men, the grocers. It was a nightly reminder of where our food came from, and now, as a shop owner, I find myself appeased by the idea that we're helping makers and doers get their work to the masses (or at least the masses in Thomasville, Georgia). 

Last Friday, my friend Sidney and I had the chance to drive to Bainbridge and meet with Jessica, the brains behind The Refinery candle operation. We've been selling Bainbridge-made Refinery candles in the shop since before the holidays, and we consistently sell out. (And before you cry, "BUT YOU'RE A BOOKSTORE," let's all agree sweet-smelling candles make for pretty cozy reading company, amen?) 

The Refinery also supports Still Waters, a safe place and shelter for women and children in South Georgia. The women make candles every week, combining new scents, cutting wicks, stamping the signature tin tags. They take ownership of the candles and learn valuable skills for future employment. 

Sidney and I were able to see firsthand the work The Refinery is doing, the beautiful making and doing these women are accomplishing. It's a pleasure -- a privilege, really -- to be able to share in their work, to bring their candles over to Thomasville. We learned just how hard candle-making can be; a thirty-minute project took us an hour and a half! So many scents, so little time. 

These are the stories that make this job so much fun. It's getting to support the makers and the doers, the people are around us who are working hard to make their dreams happen. This is the part of retail I love, the part that makes owning a storefront so very worth it. 

We had a blast following Jessica around, learning the amount of thought and effort that goes into each candle, and I'm pleased to announce we'll be carrying our very own Bookshelf- and Thomasville-inspired candles this spring. Freshly-baked bread and books, anyone?

an invitation to donald miller.

I have no idea if this is kosher or not, but I guess I just figure: What's a girl got to lose? And Don, if you're reading this, I tried really hard to find your email address, really I did. (And I mean that in the least creepy way possible.) 

--

Hi, Don,

I've been meaning to write you for months now, maybe years. I was in college when I read Blue Like Jazz for the first time, and a few years later, I was in a corporate job I liked but didn't love, when I picked up A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. You were the first person -- in my life, anyway -- to point out this idea of life as story, and I knew I didn't like the one I was living. Parts of it were beautiful, but I worried about whether I was being brave, taking risks. Together, my husband and I prayed for new openings, and as if on cue, they arrived. Big and scary opportunities that have brought us to a life that looks completely different from the one we were leading a couple of years ago.

And no, we're not missionaries in a foreign land. We didn't make a cross country move. But we did buy a bookstore. And we did move to a small, Southern town unlike any place we've lived before.

The story we're living? It's pretty darn good, and we owe our adventure to a lot of people, including you. 

After I read A Million Miles and prayed a lot of prayers and cried a lot of tears, I quit my decent corporate job and began managing a newly-opened bookstore in my hometown of Tallahassee, Florida. One year in, the owner had a proposition: She wanted to close the Tallahassee store, but maintain her larger shop in nearby Thomasville, Georgia. She was done -- ready to raise her family and begin new endeavors -- but she didn't want to see the store die. I didn't either, and because I've always had Kathleen Kelly-inspired dreams, I bought in.

Because my husband and I never half-ass anything (we're oldest children and don't know how), we moved. While other friends were leaving for Nashville and Boulder and Jacksonville and Atlanta and Chicago, we packed our bags for tiny Thomasville. So I own a bookstore in a world where people like cheap books shared instantly on their phones and tablets. We live in a small, slow town when most people our age are going bigger, farther. Our story is weird and risky and scary and honestly? Not always fun. But it's good, and it's better than it was, and I wanted to say thank you. 

And yes, I also have this tiny little wish that you might consider a book signing at my independent bookstore. Your new book comes out the week of my 29th birthday, and I think it'd be so fun to celebrate by hosting you at The Bookshelf in Thomasville. Thomasville is a lovely town, and The Bookshelf is something special. And I know it's a long shot, but I read this book once about taking risks. And I guess I figured: Why not? So thanks for encouraging this journey. My life is better -- really, truly -- after reading and thinking about your books. 

See you in the shop?

1/52 :: picking cotton.

I wrote this essay last fall, after our town hosted its second annual One Book program. For some reason, I never hit publish. I re-read it last week, and all of the truths I've written here still apply; they're still relevant to where I am right now. It felt right to kick off my 52 essays project with this, an essay about faith and forgiveness and life in a small, Southern town.

--

My entire life, I've watched my parents use their gifts and talents to serve their church. I've watched them teach classes, start ministries, conduct coat drives, rebuild classrooms, host banquets and barbecues. They do these things because they are gifted and called, and I'm grateful for their example. It's been an honor to watch their talents at work in the lives of others; I am proud to call them my parents. 

Jordan's parents, too, spend much of their lives giving back to their church. Again, I'm grateful for their example. They've shown me and Jordan how to serve, and I know their examples will ultimately prove invaluable to us as we grow up and offer our gifts, too. 

This legacy of service -- specifically to a church, to a body of believers, to a faith -- runs deep in both of our families, and for a long time, I think I've been a little confused about how to carry that legacy out in my own life. When you watch your parents devote so much of themselves to church, you assume that's what you might be called to do, too. I associated gifts and talents with the work of a church, and that became especially problematic when I discovered my gifts (spiritual or otherwise) happened to include teaching and leadership, two things fairly inaccessible to me in a conservative church setting.

I could write here about how much that hurt, about the loss I felt when it became apparent I'd need to adjust my talents to fit the setting I found myself in. I could write about how we've moved on from that church dynamic, for these reasons and more, at least for a season. I could write about women's roles and feminism and faith, but I don't want to. Not now. 

Instead, I want to tell you about how moving to a small town has given me freedom in a way I didn't realize it would. I want to tell you about making a difference, about blooming where you're planted, about coming into your own, about how sometimes that might include a body of believers, but maybe it won't. And maybe that's not just okay, maybe it's good. Maybe -- for me -- it's better. 

Last week, our small Southern town celebrated the New York Times bestselling memoir Picking Cotton. The book came out a few years ago, but it's still powerful, still timely. Together, authors Jennifer Thompson-Cannino and Ronald Cotton share their story of injustice, redemption, and forgiveness. Thirty years ago, Jennifer -- a white woman -- was raped in her home. She memorized her attacker's features, and when it came time to identify him, she knew without a doubt: It was Ronald Cotton, a tall, black man. Ronald spent 11 years in a North Carolina prison before DNA exonerated him. He was found innocent. Jennifer had made a mistake.

Can you imagine? 

Their story is incredibly moving, and after pouring over it one night, I knew: This was the one. Our town had to read this book. Each year, we host a One Book festival, and I wanted desperately for this one to be the one. And I fought for it, and it was hard, because I'm young and new to town and the book includes a rape scene and racial tensions permeate Ron's guilty verdict and this, after all, is the South. And I have lived in the South my entire life, but the South I was raised in is different from the one I'm living in now. And some of the stereotypes you hear are based in truth, and that's hard and it hurts. 

But I believe in the power of books. I do, or I wouldn't have quit my job to own a bookstore, because that's crazy, and the money isn't great, and nine months here and my dining room table is set for a dinner party I'm not having because this is hard, hard work. But I believe in it. I believe in it like my parents believe in church. 

And I haven't given up church. I have no intention of giving up church or church work or faith community. It's a huge part of my make-up, and I believe in it. But I also believe in books, and this week, I watched my community come together and celebrate this hard, good book. 

All week long, we gathered like Southerners at an old-fashioned gospel meeting. Monday, I cried listening to stories of forgiveness in my town: women who have been abused, who have watched family members die at the hands of abuse. Men with alcoholic fathers and brothers in prison. And one man who has lived in this town his entire life, whose daddy bought him a shotgun to take with him to his predominately white college, not because he wanted him to hurt anybody, but because he knew he might need it for his protection. It was 1969 after all. 

I watched as that old man wept over the hurt he's experienced for the color of skin. He wept, and I wept, but then I listened. "For me, forgiveness hasn't been a gulp. It's been a bunch of little swallows along the way." And that feels and sounds a lot like church, doesn't it? If it doesn't, it should. 

And Tuesday I heard about the criminal justice system and eyewitness identification and racial profiling, and I listened to thoughtful comments from members of my community, some people I'd never seen before, and I thought: okay. If my town is full of people like this, it's okay that my dinner table is still empty. Because this is good. 

Then Wednesday, I took my mom, and I led a book discussion with 30 people with brown bag lunches. And I prayed and I wiped the sweat from my palms, and I did what I was born to do, but what I could never do in church. I taught and led a discussion of my peers, male and female, old and young, and they were so kind and appreciative and enthusiastic and receptive, and it was so, so good.

Saturday night, after all the events were over, some dear friends of ours met us in town, and we sat down to dinner, and I talked about facilitating that discussion. And my friend (who I love, and who I'd be willing to bet is reading this right now) told me -- half-jokingly, I'm sure -- how proud he was of me for doing that, how hard leading a discussion like that must have been because I'm quiet and introverted. But the truth is? It wasn't hard. Scary? Sure, just like anything good can be scary at first. And yes, I was nervous. But the nerves left once the discussion began. And I think maybe my friend -- who attended the same church we did for many years -- maybe assumed something like that would be difficult because he'd never seen me do something like it before. And I could write about why that, right there, is reason enough to argue for a change in women's roles in church, but I won't. Instead, I'll tell you that I love him, and I love that church, and that I believe God's gifts have been given boundaries for far too long. 

This week was huge for me. It showed me what my town can do and what I can do for it and with it and I realize now more than ever how that is spiritual, God-giving, God-honoring work. 

We moved here to see what we could do. We chose small so maybe -- just maybe -- we could do something big.

And look: I don't really know how big this week was. One hundred and fifty people out of the nearly 18,000 that live here came to hear Jennifer and Ronald on Saturday. I'm not really much for facts and figures, but even I know that percentage is low. We sold 250 copies of the book, which feels unbelievable to me, but I still see we're missing some populations, that despite my best marketing efforts there were people in town who still have no idea what Picking Cotton is or what it's about. 

That's okay, because I like a challenge, and I already can't wait to see what we do next. 

But I also see the good this book has done for the 150 who came out Saturday, for the 200+ who chose to read the book. This is the South, and there's a history here I'm only beginning to see. Books have the power to provide safe spaces for conversations, and last week, that's just what Picking Cotton did. When is the last time you sat down with your neighbors and friends to talk about segregation or racial profiling or sexual assault? These are the conversations we had last week, and I'm incredibly proud of that. I'm incredibly grateful for that. 

My parents handed down to me a legacy of service. I'm still learning what that means, how that will look in my life and in the life of my family. I believe in spiritual gifts and faith communities and conversations and books, and there is a part of me that still hurts deeply over the loss of not being able to lead and teach in a church setting. 

But I'm realizing maybe some gifts aren't meant to stay inside a church, inside a building or wrapped up in one community. Maybe I've been thinking too small. Maybe this is why we're here, now. 

Last week was exhausting, emotionally and physically. It was a commitment of time and energy, and there were times I thought I might pull my (or someone else's) hair out. But it was worth it, really, truly. And my service, in this season, isn't wrapped up in church work. It's not, and that's okay. Perhaps better than okay. Because I believe in a God who calls us outside our comfort zones, who requires dirty, hands-and-knees kind of work, and in this community, I believe that's possible, even encouraged, even wanted. 

So the questions of faith and church? I'm still asking those. But the ones about legacy and service and what that looks like? I think I'm starting to know the answers.

Photo by Sidney Webb

spoken in the shop, vol. 17.

On why gender issues exist

Customer 1: "Look at this animal book! It's done by the Smithsonian."
Customer 2: "Yeah. It'd be a great gift for a little boy." 

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On perspective

Me: "You have a great weekend!"
Customer (approx. 70-years-old): "I intend to. And if I don't, it's my own fault!"

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On erotica
"You might want to tell your other customers this one's about 25 shades of grey."

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On confidence
First grader at story time: "I really do think I'm the smartest girl in the world."

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On job qualifications
Phone call: "Are you hiring?"
Me: "We're not currently hiring, but I do encourage people to drop off their resumes if they're interested."
Phone call, hesitation: "Do I have to work the cash register?

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On not understanding local bookselling
Phone call: "Do you all buy books from Amazon.com?"

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On compliments
We have a wooden cat with glasses sitting by our register.
Customer to manager: "The cat looks like you."

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On treating yo' self.
"Mom! It's always about money! Sometimes you've just got to take a load off!"

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On why Google is so important
"When I send my book to a publisher, do you know what format my pictures need to be in?"

fear and trembling.

It's been a while.

The words have been percolating, and I'm still not sure they're ready to come out, but this week Shauna Niequist wrote that for her, writing equals learning, and the same, I think, is true of me. I write my way through things, and my life has been such a chaotic, beautiful mess these past several months, the words have been set on the back burner, slowly bubbling up, waiting to take on a life of their own.

Here I am, then, telling my story in bits and pieces, because the words won't wait anymore.

We are finding our home in Thomasville. I laugh at the Annie of six months ago, the Annie who gave herself a deadline to find new friends and a new church, who thought deadlines would help fix everything because normally, they do. I love deadlines and lists and the adrenaline that comes from setting a goal and meeting it.

But friends and faith are not about goals, I've discovered. You can build it, and they still might not come.

Setting my table wasn't enough. I think that's worth mentioning, because a lot of advice I received and words I read encouraged me to move forward, to put myself out there, and things would start happening.

That's not true, not always.

So instead, it is September, and we are settling into life here, but it is different, and it is hard not to pour all of that out when people unwittingly ask how we are doing. We have moved to a small town in the South where everyone knows each other and has family and community built in and at their fingertips -- how do you think we are doing?

I have taken over a bookstore -- a dream -- but change is hard in a small town, and I understand that. It's hard, but I understand it. So I am putting my head down and doing the work, which is all I really know to do. And slowly, the guards are coming down, and people are warming up to me and what I have to offer. It has been painful, but it is rewarding and good for me, and I am happy.

The store itself is doing well. We will never be millionaires, but things are growing, moving. I have staff members and co-workers who respect me and who carry burdens and who do the work right along with me. I am thrilled with them, though in the back of my mind, I wonder how long they will stay. Such is the burden of retail. So I am learning to be content and happy right now, and that is yet another hard thing -- the list of hard things grows a little longer each day, I think.

Our community is good. It doesn't look like I thought it would. (What does, I wonder?) I don't have kindred spirits or giggle-until-you-cry friends. There are no girls' nights. I am intimidated by the intimacy others have formed in decades of life here, but I am also hopeful, and I am discovering that my own time is limited and valuable, perhaps more now than ever before, and as a result, friendships and community might look different than they did a few years ago. I am entering a season in which mingling and networking and "putting myself out there" will all become impossibilities.

I have decided, then, to not try quite as hard. Instead, as with the bookstore, I am going to put my head down and do the work in the ways I know how. I am going to be friendly and kind and warm, but I may not make every event or activity because I just can't. I have tried too hard, I think, these past few months, and it has to stop. Remarkably, I am okay with this. I am trusting the friends will come, with time and effort and faith. For now, it is what it is. And I don't find that truth unpleasant; I find it hopeful.

Creating a home for ourselves in Thomasville meant finding a house and making it look like we lived and loved there. It meant building a community of people we could call ours. It meant opening our hearts and our hands and our pocketbooks to entrepreneurship and all the good and bad it brings. It meant refocusing our faith and finding a church to breathe and be life in.

Last weekend, we spent time with family from all over these Southern states, and would you know almost every person our age was struggling with the question of church and faith? My brother, I think, was disheartened by so much dissatisfaction and hurt, but I was comforted. It is always comforting to know we are not alone.

Jordan and I are trying a new thing with our faith. We are stepping out in prayer and pursuing something different, something unrecognizable to many of our family and friends. I have rarely been specific here about our faith stories, about where we were raised and how we've become who we are. I have hesitated, perhaps out of fear, but more likely out of the potential for hurt and confusion.

We love the way we were raised. We love our faith history. But it is time to focus on our faith going forward.

Yes, I've hurt and been hurt, but this isn't about that. This is about a faith that had grown stagnant and weary and dry, and a corner I turned a few weeks ago when we took a leap in a new direction, and I woke up realizing I was excited for Sunday.

I don't know how much to share yet, but I believe so actively in sharing stories, in grace and authenticity. So I'm sharing this little bit: That Bible verse, the one about working out your salvation with fear and trembling? It shouldn't scare you. It should free you. It has freed me.

The answers aren't clear. Jordan fights long and hard for black and white; I tend to dwell in grey. That's okay. Maybe answers will come; maybe they won't. What matters for us is the pursuit of a faith and belief that is active, working, breathing. I'm not sure yet where that will take us, but I am grateful we are doing it together. 

I don't want to leave the impression that life isn't good, because it is. Who I am now is not, thankfully, who I was a year ago. When I think about this time last year, I realize I was unhappy, stressed, and confused. We had just begun to take over the store, and the growing pains were immense, and we made mistakes. We hadn't moved, so our life was split between these two places. We're not there anymore, and I am glad. 

Moving takes time. In this world of instantaneous communication, of Pinterest boards and Instagram photos, it's important to remember life takes time. My friends teased me when I moved, that my house was decorated and put together in the blink of an eye. What they may not realize is I needed that, because it wasn't going to happen anywhere else. Anyone can hang a picture or put throw pillows on a couch. But building a community? Running a store? Starting a website? Creating a podcast? Forming a staff? Finding a church? None of that moves quickly. 

I'm learning to embrace the now, and I'm learning to embrace how slow it all moves. 

Our goal in all of this -- in life, in entrepreneurship, in friends and church and faith -- is to open our hands. To take each day as it comes, and to learn from it. I'm trying to let go of expectations and watch what happens when I do. 

My palms are open wide. The words are coming back. And I am fearful and trembling, but hoping too.

spoken in the shop, vol. 13.

On inventory

"Do you, like, know what books you have here?"

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On slogans

Nine-year-old boy, gazing at our "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster:
"That should say 'Keep Calm and Carry a Book.'" 

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On competition
"Last year, I came in second place for top reader at my school, and that is just not good enough."

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On social expectations
Me, to four-year-old customer: "Uh-oh! Be careful; you're spilling your M&Ms!"
Four-year-old: "That's okay. You'll pick them up!"

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On what I should be reading
 Customer: "Do you know what a mammoth is?"
Me: "Yes; they're like hairy elephants with those big tusks, right?"
Customer, in awe: "YES! Exactly! You would love this book! The mammoth hunter falls in love with a deer, and there's this fantastic orgy. You'll love it!"

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On details
Mom: "He's looking for the Warrior books. Do you have those?"
Young boy: "Mom! I'm looking for the Warrior CATS books. Be more pacific!"

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On realistic expectations
Mom: "Look, honey! This book is all about how brushing your teeth can be fun!"
Little boy: "No."

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On mathematics
Me: "Let me know if you have any questions!"
Customer: "What's the square root of -2?"

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On job opportunities
Five-year-old girl to father: "I want to work here when I grow up!"

a word about you and the bookshelf. (a plug.)

There's no competing with Amazon. You know that, right? Independent bookstores aren't even in the same realm; we don't even breathe the same air. We will never come out on top in that fight. It's not ours to fight in the first place. We can't really even compete against the Barnes and Nobles and Books-A-Millions of the world, though that fight is becoming more fair, the playing field more level. 

Instead, we of the independent bookstore press on, staking our claim on customer service, individual tastes, and cozy atmospheres. It is all about the individuality, the self-expression, the unique ability to remember what you read last and what you'll want to read next. 

This is hard work, in case you weren't aware. (You probably were. Anyone who has to deal with the public on a regular basis would be.) It is now my job to cater to the few thousand people who live in my town and choose to shop locally. It's important to know their names, their tastes. It's important, and I'm trying. 

But I also want to expand The Bookshelf's horizons a bit. 

I've been blogging since 2008, and I have no desire to make money from it. None. I don't have that kind of time, energy, or work ethic. I blog because I like to write, and I need an outlet, and I happen to enjoy the small community I've found here. I can't really get into affiliate links or sidebar advertising or sponsored posts, because I don't think my blog or writing style lends itself to that. (Seriously, what would I advertise for? Books? I own a bookstore.)

Which brings me to my main point. 

I have been writing my thoughts down on the Internet since 2008. Some of you have read along as I got married, adjusted to life with another human being, endured church hurts, and sat through somewhat mundane desk jobs. You cheered me on when I quit said desk job and began working at a small bookstore in Tallahassee; you encouraged me when that store closed, and this door, miraculously, opened. 

Now here we are, six years later, and you've watched me move to a small Southern town and take the leap into full-time entrepreneurship. You have left comments and sent emails; some of you have sent letters and become true friends. My blog following has never been big, but it has been so meaningful. You have helped me get to this point. 

My business isn't like a lot I see online. I don't have an Etsy shop; my services aren't available through a website. Sure, our store sells books online, but like I said earlier -- there's really no competing with Amazon. But I've been thinking a lot lately about how you all could partner in this business, how you could see what the store is doing, how life is going, how this bookstore-owner gig really works. 

So my business partner and I came up with a plan. 

First, a book-a-month club. And no, I don't expect all of you to sign up. But I want my long-distance friends to know there's a fun -- and yes, financial -- way you can support the store. Lots of independent bookstores offer this service; think StitchFix for books. Basically, a customer -- local or long-distance -- will fill out a form and sign up for a monthly subscription to The Bookshelf. Each month, the customer will receive a new book based on his or her preferences, hand-selected by Bookshelf staff (me). 

I've been doing online book reviews for years, and no, I've never used Amazon affiliate links. I don't even have a GoodReads account. (I would have no idea where to begin.) But I always get such lovely feedback when I do those posts, and I get the same feedback from the recommendations I make in the shop each day. Why not bring that kind of customer service to my Internet friends? And I really do think it would make the most lovely gift for an expectant mother or her little one. 

But I get it; a monthly subscription for new books may seem frivolous to you, or it just might not make sense given your budget and your lifestyle. 

Which is why we're also launching "From the Front Porch,"a podcast all about books, small business, and life in the South. (That's literally the tagline.) The podcast may make it big in our little Georgia town, but I kind of doubt it. The podcast is truly for you. It's a way for you to hear about this journey in entrepreneurship, about life leading a bookstore in a Southern tourist town. My hope is to host author interviews, offer book reviews, have chats with my staff -- all from the comfort of my little front porch. 

If we lived near one another, I hope you know you'd be invited over to dinner. And we'd sip lemonade and take long walks, and we'd have the most lovely time. 

But the reality is there is distance among Internet friends. It can't be helped. And sure, there are meet-ups and blogger conferences, but for most of us, that's just not practical. But a podcast? 

Hey, that we can do. 

Consider this my invitation to join me on my front porch. The podcast will launch June 1, but until then, I'm rather desperate to know: What would you like to hear? All of this is so new to me; it feels big and daunting and challenging, but I think it could be something really special. I asked last week on Twitter, but I thought I'd ask here: What types of stories would you like to hear? Who would you love for me to interview? What questions do you have about Southern life, about our quirky customers and our daily tasks? Do you need recommendations for your middle reader? What conversations could we start about books and entrepreneurship and life? 

So that's it. That's what's happening in my corner of the world. I can't compete with Amazon. Heck, I can't even really compete with other larger independent stores. (I don't really want to.) But I can enlist this wonderful army of readers and friends to do what you do best: encourage, uplift, and get me excited for this wonderful adventure I am now lucky enough to call my day job. 

Thanks.

on asking for help.

Would you like to know what happens when you have the courage to ask for help?

You get it. 

And instead of working late and coming home tearful with tired feet and aching back, you find yourself sitting on your couch, watching football, listening to the rain on a wide-open Saturday afternoon. 

Something happened this week. 

Yes, I had a bout with allergies that forced me to stay home in bed Monday and Tuesday. 

But Wednesday, I tackled marketing and authors' events and design work. 

Thursday, I paid bills all by myself. (This is a big deal.)

Friday, I ran the store and interviewed a couple of new filler employees, people designed to come in to the store and work on an "as needed" basis. 

Today, I straightened up the children's section, placed orders, and left right when I needed to. 

You know why? 

Because slowly, surely, I'm getting the help I need. 

We're a small establishment, sure. 

But for an independent bookstore in a small town, The Bookshelf is actually a pretty big space. It requires a lot of maintenance and attention, but because it's a small business, there aren't a lot of people to give it the maintenance and attention it needs. The store's needs fall on a very small group of people -- actually, if we're being honest, two -- and the resulting pressure had begun to take its toll, both on me and on the senior sales associate. 

There are a lot of parts to this small business thing that are difficult for me. But one task I really like and think I'm especially capable of is problem solving. Give me a problem, and with some time and effort, I generally can come up with a reasonable solution. It's like a puzzle. (A large, expensive puzzle, but still.)

With some maneuvering, I think I've been able -- maybe, fingers crossed -- to solve this problem. We've added a new junior sales associate who takes care of the store during our new extended hours, and we've got a couple of new employees who will come in as fillers on busy days, holidays, and weekends. This alleviates so much pressure from me, and because we've maneuvered the scheduled hours for other staff members, I think it's going to be a financially reasonable solution too. 

I like being in control. I like having my finger on the pulse of all the comings and goings of the store. 

But if I am going to do this long-term, if Jordan and I are going to be entrepreneurs for the next few years as we enter parenthood and beyond, the only way we can do it is with help. 

Is hiring new staff fun? 

Not particularly. There are interviews and training and trying to figure out if your gut is an accurate thermometer for major business decisions. 

But finding help is necessary. Developing a team who will support you and make your dreams come true is imperative. 

I'm not saying things are perfect. I'm not even saying the problem is fully solved. 

But today, I'm home earlier than usual. I'm watching football. I'm listening to rain. 

And I'm grateful that maybe, just maybe, better days -- more days like this -- are around the bend. 

before + after: the office.

Today is my first day off in a couple of weeks, and I have exactly enough energy to put on sweatpants and engage in a Gilmore Girls marathon. I have a tendency to work until my body tells me it's time to rest, meaning I'm now congested, sinus-y, and desperate for a good night's sleep. 

But before Monday, there was Sunday. 

My family came for their second work day at the store and tackled a list of things I needed to be done and simply couldn't do alone. Together, we painted the store's bathroom and built a bookcase for story time supplies. We installed metal pipes to hang extra bags and hung a curtain in the children's section. 

And then we came to the office.

 

 

I work several hours a week in the store's office paying bills, maneuvering QuickBooks, and scouring catalogs. I do almost all of the store's marketing and design work from the office, and I've got to say: The space was not conducive to creative work. It was unorganized, cluttered, and tiny. Even after the owner cleared out much of her belongings, it was still a depressing place to work -- no windows; white, sterile walls; and an odd desk set-up that made my back face any potential visitors.

 

Some people can work anywhere. They can plop down with their laptop in the middle of chaos and somehow, get everything done. They don't need pretty lighting or just the right music or room to spread out. 

I am not one of those people.

Working every day in what essentially was a storage closet was taking its toll on me and my work, and while completing tasks from home is, for me, ideal, it's not exactly convenient. Our home is still 45 minutes away from the store, and as a newcomer in this small town, I know it's important for me to maintain a physical presence. I needed to be in the shop, but I dreaded sitting down at my desk to get things done.

I don't think that's going to be a problem anymore.

 

The store is such a cheerful place to be, and now my office -- where I spend so much of my time these days -- reflects the same energy I hope is present throughout the shop. It's still a really tiny space, but now, I face out so visitors can't surprise me at the door. I can leave the fluorescent lighting off and work by lamplight. I have space to organize bills and receipts and catalogs. It feels like I'm starting fresh and can create my own systems to work. It finally feels like something is mine. 

I was supposed to use my day off to decorate our house for fall. It's still 90 degrees here, but I'm anxious to get our home ready for my favorite season. It turns out, of course, that I'm too exhausted to do that today. The pumpkins and candles and leaves will have to wait until next week.

That's okay. The effort we spent at the store yesterday was so worth it. This week, when I sit down to do some of the more mundane (and difficult) tasks of ownership, I'll be sitting in a space that looks and feels a lot more like me. I imagine I'll be able to focus and regroup; I'll be able to do the job without being burdened and exhausted by it. 

It's amazing what a little change in scenery can do. 

Fabric bunting :: The Pleated Poppy

You've Got Mail prints :: Alexa Z Designs

Frames :: Target

Washi tape :: Target

Paint color :: Minted Ice by Behr

Rug :: Target