You’re closing your doors at the end of 2019, and when I heard, it felt a little like I’d just lost a friend. It was unexpected news, although it shouldn’t have been, and suddenly, I felt guilty for the times I looked at the price on the back of a book and compared it to the price online. And then I thought, well, why not? This year has been hard anyway, so I guess this makes sense, too.

Every bookstore that closes feels like we’re losing just a little more magic, and especially now, we need all the magic we can get.

As a book lover, I have some really amazing memories at Barnes & Noble. The time I asked someone for help finding a bodice ripper about a pirate threesome, and there was zero judgement from the person helping me. Just a smile and a “Okay! What color was the cover?” like we were both in on some bookish inside joke (it was an orangish red color, by the way). The time I got pulled into a conversation about The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, and similar books because we both absolutely loved the style and genre. The time my cousin and I were sitting on the floor in the YA section pouring over covers and titles, and someone came over and started recommending their own. No matter where either of us lived, visits to see each other always included a trip to Banres & Noble. The monthly poetry readings in the cooking, and then the art and graphic design sections have introduced me to some wonderful people and some wonderful words.

My parents instilled a love of reading in me from the moment I was born. At 4, my parents were reading me stories at bedtime, letting me follow the words and get lost in the worlds. Read on Rita was about a raccoon determined to save her local library that was on the verge of shutting down. We moved a lot when I was a kid, but the bedtime stories were a constant thing in my life. This might have been my first literary exposure to what it meant to be a strong woman and fight for what you believe in.

At 7, I expressed interest in a reading contest at our local library, and my dad bought me my very first Nancy Drew novel. I read close to 15 of them that summer. I won the contest, too, with a few other books sprinkled in. I was a bonafide bibliophile, even if I couldn’t spell that word. It would be a while longer before I would recognize the support and the love that my parents showed in taking me down to that library every week.

At 13, I was introduced to Harry Potter. In just days, I read the first three books, the only three books at the time. I grew up with Harry, experiencing my own world of progressively heavier and more mature challenges as the books become darker, heavier. The golden trio felt like friends to me. To say this series didn’t shape my teen years would be a lie. I sport my Ravenclaw house pride to this day.

At 16, my eyes zeroed in on an entire chapter of As I Lay Dying. “My mother is a fish.” No one in class understood it, or so they said. I always felt like they didn’t even bother to try to understand it, but I did, and I thought, just maybe, I could make a career out of words.

At 19, a college drop-out working part time and going to a junior college to keep myself busy, I was assigned The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien in my History of Vietnam class. That was the book that lead to a collection of over a hundred military memoirs- most of them purchased at Barnes & Noble on San Fernando. It renewed my passion in volunteering for and donating to veterans and service members, and if there is one thing I want to be remembered for, it would be that my patriotic heart made a difference.

At 26, my mother and I were piecing a life back together after my dad’s stroke that left him permanently disabled, but alive. For months, he was in a coma, and we struggled with what that meant, with personalities and communication, we struggled with family, we struggled with everything. I discovered a book by David Finkle called Thank You for Your Service. It was all about veterans and their struggles with PTSD once they come home, but I remember one passage so clearly that hit me square in the chest and knocked the wind out of me. It spurred me into researching PTSD in stroke victims, and ultimately made me understand better what my dad was going through. I cried through the rest of that book. I ached at every word that reminded me of my dad.

At 28, Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus enchanted me, and still hasn’t let me go. This book made me believe in love again, it made me believe in magic and the power of a really great story. I’ve been writing since bad Harry Potter fanfiction at 13, but this book filled me with so much love for the written word and made me believe that I have a story worth telling. This book made me believe in magic and in love.

At 32, I have a to-be-read list longer than my life expectancy, and a real fear that I will die with books unread on my shelf. I know not every store is closing its doors, but this one still hits me as something to mourn. I still have a couple of really neat bookstores near me (The Iliad is a wonderful used bookstore with two of the cutest cats, and The Last Bookstore in Downtown LA is always a fun adventure).

But they’re not you, Burbank Barnes & Noble. So for all of the big and little moments in life that you’ve seen me through without even knowing your impact, for your always friendly and engaging employees, for supporting the books that shaped me, thank you, and know that you will be missed. I’m sorry we couldn’t do more to keep you- maybe we’ll all be inspired to be a little more Read on Rita for the bookstores that remain.

An Open Letter to Barnes & Noble in Burbank