New Fiction, “The Book Finder”

For me, walking into a book store is an odd experience. I’m in a room full of books and I can’t red any of them. Books and reading is where I live—where I have lived for most of my life, but as a blind person, access to print books has always been an issue.
This doesn’t mean I don’t like walking through book stores. I will visit with a friend—always feeling a strange expectancy as whomever I’m with reds titles and backs of books. If I buy, I mostly buy for other people. But my world of books is audio and digital, not print.
I’ve always been able to find books to read, books that take me into worlds I haven’t yet imagined, but many of my most memorable reads have come from other people—teachers, friends, and relatives. I always pay attention when someone tells me about a book. It might be something I’ve already read, but often not. And you never know how a book is going to alter the way you see the world—whether that’s a biography of Charles Darwin, a hefty Dickens novel, or a book about little people who live in holes in the ground. Every book is both mirror and lens—it shows you something of yourself while enabling you to see the world in new and interesting ways.
All of this thinking went into a story I wrote last year called “The Book Finder.” It’s a story about a mysterious woman who works in a bookstore. People talk about her, but no one seems to be able to find her by looking. If you ask at the bookstore, they will invariably shake their heads and send you to the reference desk.
Here’s the opening from “The Book Finder”:

You couldn’t always find her. If you went looking for her, you would never find her—that’s what some people said. You just had to be in the store—by accident, by chance, or just because.
Most people who claimed to have met her didn’t remember her clearly. They would frown, trying to recall.
“I was in there … a Tuesday, I think,” they would say, vaguely. “But I didn’t know what I was looking for. Then she came over and just started asking me what I liked to read. I told her … and she handed me a book.”
The stories went like that. Some said it was an older woman—one was convinced it was a man. But most said it was a girl, or a young woman, smiling, inquiring, and asking what you liked to read.
And maybe that was it. You couldn’t go into the little shop intentionally. You couldn’t walk in and ask for her. If you did, the person behind the counter would say something vague in response: ”Oh, you must mean Sarah (or Sally, or Jane). She’s not here today, but if you go to the reference desk, someone can help you.”

I want to thank the editors of The Evening Street Review for publishing “The Book Finder” in their summer, 2020 issue. You can purchase a copy of the journal at the following address:
The Evening Street Review.
The summer issue is loaded with poetry, short stories, and nonfiction. Remember, purchasing a copy of the magazine helps such journals to continue bringing us stories that will live with us for years to come, and perhaps, even change the way we see the world.

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