In the early ’80s I lived near the Frog Rock on Bainbridge Island. It was cheaper to live on the island and ride the ferry than to live in Seattle. On rare days, when I had a little money, I would treat myself to bookstore visits to Eagle Harbor Book Co. in Winslow and Elliott Bay Book Store in Pioneer Square. I longed to be a writer and after heady poetry classes with Colleen McElroy and Nelson Bentley, I would get off the bus and walk to Elliott Bay and spend hours admiring book altars and curated book piles, a hungry shark searching for a treat in Elliott Bay’s vast sea of books.

I’d select one book based on a memorable first paragraph or staff recommendation. I’d spend many more hours in the basement coffeeshop reading my new treasure, and writing, and nursing my one cup of coffee. I loved that bookstore so close to Puget Sound I could smell salt. Hidden away in an alcove of musty-scented old books, I dreamt I was a writer. And after my ferry ride home on those lucky drizzly afternoons, I’d stop at Eagle Harbor and browse their selections, too. All the staff recommendations were fortune tellers—choose this book and you will see new worlds.

And what those booksellers told me so long ago was this—you matter, reader. And in my own imaginary world they shouted—you are a writer and one day your book will be displayed with our staff recommendation, a white paper badge fluttering beneath your own book stack. I heard this goodwill voice of booksellers in every word they wrote about the books they loved. Year upon year of those intense tiny shoutouts to the world. Read this book! Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street, Walker’s The Color Purple, Carver’s Where I’m Calling From, Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude rereleased, Erdrich’s Love Medicine, and hundreds more, thousands more. How many books did I find, and still find, with the help of booksellers?

I’ve visited small independent bookstores across the country and have never lost the feeling of immersion and intoxication. The smell of bookstores, the sheathy sound of books pulled from shelves, lifted from book piles. The whispery customer discussions of good books in aisles. The bookstore seller’s excitement in sharing their selections. I’ve walked down a thousand aisles of bookstore shelves and read a thousand bookseller’s recommendations. And after all these years, after all my imaginings and wishes, my own novel The Lost Journals of Sacajewea carries its own bookstore flag, the recommendations of many independent booksellers.

There is such wonder in independent bookstores. Everyday booksellers bravely recommend books that challenge and stir-up readers. They read and sell books that expand our imaginations, touch our aggrieved souls, and ignite our intellect. They invite readers to experience the diversity of our rich world. Read this, they say, and tell me what you think. For years and years and years they have shown me that I matter as a reader. I have known independent booksellers to sell difficult and challenging books even when they are threatened. Booksellers are courageous in their desire to share knowledge and ideas. Booksellers matter.

Thank you for selecting The Lost Journals of Sacajewea for the honor of the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association Award.

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