There were two of us, and between us we spent a little over a decade behind the counter of a shop that sold everything: cookbooks, calendars, the occasional cushion. Every year the fiction section moved further back. First it lost the window. Then it lost the front table. By the end it was two shelves near the stockroom, behind the greetings cards, which is a hard place to fall in love with a novel.
We kept a list of the books we wished we could put in people's hands, and a longer list of the ones nobody was ever going to find back there. When the shop changed hands again, we took the lists and left.
Novel is the shop we wanted to work in. Fiction is not a department here, or a corner, or a shelf we defend in meetings — it is the entire shop. Four hundred novels, chosen by hand, and nothing else on the premises. No business books. No memoirs. Nothing with a subtitle that promises to change your life.