Handselling and Shopkeeping

Wherein the author muses about empty space and full spaces and what draws the eye

I am delighted to see that Peter from Coco’s Variety is newslettering again. There was a fallow period earlier this year when there was no miscellanea coming from him, and I missed it. His newsletter is one of those warm meanderings that show up in my inbox, written by a guy I don’t know, who is talking about things I have little experience with. It is one of my favorite things these days because it always introduces me to so many things, and Peter is one of the good ones. I read his newsletters so that—somehow, somewhere—he knows a random stranger gives a shit about his thoughts and efforts to make this world a better place.

I would be happy if all of my email was like this.

I went and saw Coppola’s Megalopolis the other night. It was a preview night, which is an excuse for why the theater was almost empty, but I suspect most showings are going to be like this, and you should make the effort now to catch it on the big screen, because I doubt it will be in theaters long. Which is a damn shame because it should be seen in a theater, with a big screen and a bigger sound system.

It is, to crib from someone else’s commentary, a film that I can’t say is good or bad, but I can attest that I shouldn’t talk about it without seeing it a second or third time. It is definitely the creation of a singular vision, and any commentary about quality really should include a caveat that there’s nothing there that wasn’t precisely what Coppola wanted. Any negative commentary on our part may actually say more about our lack of understanding of what he was doing in any given scene than any sort of objective value statement.

That all said, I am so glad the last hour exists. That someone made a big and splashy vision statement about humanity and the future and what the fuck we should really be trying to do with our lives. That, yes, utopia can exist simply because two people are actively talking about it. We’re sort of dumb animals in that we are easily distracted and dismayed, and it helps to have something to point to as “let’s go do that thing.”

I stumbled upon Peter Miler’s Shopkeeping at the bookstore the other day. It came out in May. I don’t recall newslettering it, and this wasn’t the first copy we’ve had in the store. Either way, it’s mine now. After standing in the aisle and reading the first ten pages, I figured I should stop being that customer and buy the damn thing already.

What caught my attention is the simplicity of his argument, which is all about how to run a shop. Not in that Top 10 Ways to Arrange Your Merchandise to Maximize Customer Attention. But more in that way of how to create a community space. Shopkeeping isn’t just about running a store. It’s about being responsible for a space. And yeah, there’s definitely a point where you stop worrying about having the right merchandise on the shelves and start fussing over the vibe and the experience.

Which slams right into the conundrum I’ve been wrestling with for several years now in regards to be a publisher in this day and age. We don’t have store fronts (well, for the most part). If we do hand-selling, it’s at conventions and festivals and weekend events. Online communities are either corners of other established spaces (a Facebook group, for instance), or secluded water coolers (Discord) where folks who wander in are always overwhelmed by the fact that the party has clearly been going on for some time. How do you craft a “shop” in this digital age?

I don’t know. But I’m definitley gnawing on the question. The allure of a pleasant shop—of a familiar space—is what creates community. How do you craft that feeling as a publisher?

This year has not been my favorite year. It has been, in many ways, my busiest year. Underland has a book coming out this week (Rachel Rodman’s absolutely marvelous Mutants & Hybrids) and two next week (Paul Jessup’s Daughter of the Wormwood Star and the second Cozy Cosmic anthology), bringing the press’s total this year to seven. Seven!

I find this number amazing because I recall saying back in 2023 that five had been a lot and maybe we should take it easier in 2024. Such a lie.

But here we are, and I’ve dropped the ball about telling the world about Rachel’s book (in fact, I’ve so confused myself that, yes, the ebook is out this week and the print book is out next week, which is not the way we usually do things). There have been other projects and things that have demanded my attention, but also, I don’t like standing on a box and yelling “Buy this book! Buy this book! Buy! Buy! Buy!” But that’s part of the job anymore. You’ve got to huckster yourself a bit—more than a bit, in fact—otherwise you’ll never be heard over the eighty decibels of white noise that in the baseline Internet experience.

I find myself thinking of the shop experience. Where you can push away the noise and clatter. Where you can put on a nice record and maybe offer some tea. Why don’t you sit over here and peruse Rodman’s new book. Yes, yes. Let’s laugh together about some of her cures for hiccups. And oh, the fish story? I love the fish story too!

Anyway, thinking about art. Thinking about the curated experience, about the role of the “curator.” Thinking about the place of a shop within a community. (See this interview with Angel from Coco’s Variety.) Thinking about the fuckton of things that are on my list for this week—all of which are marvelous opportunities to make things and none of which were on my radar four months ago. And being grumpy with myself that I’m not working harder at all the things, because—I don’t know. I like doing these things.

But a lot of them—this persistently pesky quandry about marketing, for one—are things that I don’t necessarily feel all that adept about, and such fear leads to stalling and waffling and not breaking the task down into chunks I CAN do. And we all know where this spiral goes, right?

Anyway, Rachel’s book is out this week (sorta). It is a collection of minimalist mashups and inventive fairy tales. Tropes are split open with a cleaver, salted and roasted, and then folded into a pie. There are lists that turn into full-blown stories. There are stories about dwarves and time travel and speculative science and the awkwardness of relationships you don’t fully understand. There are pieces that sneak up on you, pieces that play hide-and-seek with you, and pieces that defy standardized logic. They can all be read in a sitting. They can all be thought about for hours afterward. It’s a great book. You should get yourself one.

In fact, I’ll make a 10% off coupon. It’ll be good for a week. I’m sure I’ll fumble it in a way that it will work on any Underland title. This link will auto-apply it to your shopping cart. Otherwise, use “TENOCTO” when you check out.

And now, I’m going to go try to finish this space heist story* so I can put on my spiky hat and armored pauldroons and run howling into MORKTOBER.**

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* “Hey, Mark, why are you teasing us like this. What space heist story?” That’s a valid question. It is the third story in the Maisiverse, which is a SFnal universe that is equal parts Frank Herbert’s Dune, Ian M. Banks’s Culture novels, and John Rodgers’s Leverage TV series. The first two stories appeared in Crooked v.1 and v.2 (those links will provide all sorts of places to buy copies). This story—“The Alshaita Uplift Job”—is the one where Maisi and the crew attempt to get themselves a looker. Problems ensue.

** “Hey Mark, this looks like a role-playing thing. Is there something we should know?” Another valid question, and my answer here is: “Maybe?” One of the projects that has been rattling around in my head is a fantastical RPG world, and there’s no time like time you don’t really have to get something done. I’m unprepared and will probably be late, but honestly, that’s how I’ve felt about every project in the last ten years, and so here we go!