海角大神

Like everybody else in America, I was looking for a side hustle. Something to make a few extra bucks so I can afford my favorite grande cappulatte Machu Picchu with xtra xpresso.

So I read all the clickbait articles about taking surveys (for pennies) or becoming a remote receptionist (too much work). I even briefly considered delivering pizza but realized I鈥檇 be fired after the first night for picking all the pepperoni off of customers鈥� pizzas and leaving just the naked dough.

I looked around my house for inspiration, peering over and around the piles of books tottering like enormous games of Jenga. 鈥淢aybe I can sell my clothes. Surely somebody would want the Size 6 Calvin Kleins I wore in high school. They鈥檙e vintage. I can鈥檛 get them past my knees.鈥�

I leafed idly through one of my four copies of 鈥淚nfinite Jest鈥� (which I鈥檝e never read), and an idea slowly formed. I could sell books. My books. No, not books I鈥檝e actually written, but all of the hundreds of books I鈥檝e compulsively purchased over the years and never quite gotten around to. Like 鈥淐andide鈥� and 鈥淭he Gulag Archipelago,鈥� both of which feel like homework. Or real page-turners like 鈥淶en and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,鈥� which I presume is about mindfulness and small-engine repair, neither of which interests me.

I watched a YouTube video by somebody who was (allegedly) earning $3,000 a month selling books online. I was sold.

Since all roads lead to Amazon, I requested permission to join Amazon Marketplace.聽

All I had to do now was choose which books to sell, post them to my account, ship them off to my millions of happy customers, and watch the money roll in.

I needed a system. Piles are, technically, a system. But I needed different piles. I needed 鈥渒eep鈥� and 鈥渟ell鈥� piles.聽

I started out strong because I own three copies of Stephen King鈥檚 鈥淭he Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger.鈥� No, I don鈥檛 know why.

It was easy enough to post a copy to Amazon and follow it up with several other less-than-beloved books like Sir Thomas More鈥檚 鈥淯topia鈥� and Gary Zukav鈥檚 鈥淭he Dancing Wu Li Masters.鈥�

After a certain age, you forget about the person you used to be. Apparently, I was a person who thought deep thoughts and bought books like Gary Zukav鈥檚 鈥淭he Dancing Wu Li Masters.鈥澛�

Part of me wishes I was still that person. Someone with intellectual curiosity and without the fatal allure of the internet calling to me like the sirens of Homer鈥檚 鈥淭he Odyssey,鈥� which I also haven鈥檛 read, but I think I鈥檝e got a copy lying around somewhere and I know there are sirens in it and something about a sheep.

But I forgot about all that when I discovered that my copy of Steve Martin鈥檚 1977 masterpiece 鈥淐ruel Shoes鈥� is worth $35.

Should I hang onto it? Maybe I should hang onto it. It can only appreciate in value, right? What if Steve Martin dies? Well, not if, but at least before me. The price will go through the roof. My copy of 鈥淐ruel Shoes鈥� will become memorabilia. And everybody knows memorabilia is worth more than ordinary stuff.

And what about all these other books I鈥檝e never read? I should read them first, and then I鈥檒l sell them.

A year has gone by. I鈥檝e added a measly 10 books to the 鈥渟ell鈥� pile, and only after the kind of tortured internal debate usually reserved for buying a new home.

I sold one copy of 鈥淭he Gunslinger鈥� and shipped it to Colorado at a loss.聽

And even though I owned three copies of 鈥淭he Gunslinger,鈥� I felt ambivalent about letting it go. It was a book, and I loved it. I loved the feel of the slick cardboard cover in my hands and the smell of the musty paper it was printed on. I loved the memories of where I was in my life when I first bought it at a mall bookstore.

The mall is gone. And now the book is.

But each book reminds me that authors live forever through their work. Each book, too, reminds me of a younger me, and I don鈥檛 want to let that younger me go.

So, please, whatever you do, don鈥檛 buy my books.