At five o’clock in the morning, a bookstore is a wonderful, magical place. It’s a much different experience before the doors open, before the full lights come on, before the customers are browsing, before the background music is playing. The books speak to you at that hour. The titles catch your eye, the covers beckon, and if you seek them out, the authors seem to negotiate with you from their super-pro photos. “I know what I’m talking about,” some say. Those are the serious folks. “I’ve got sexy sins and secrets,” another might suggest by the twinkle in their eye. “I wrote this, but don’t look at me, only the words matter!” says one, whose picture shows the back of her head and a big black coat hiding her shape. “Not only are my words hot, but I’m totally do-able,” says this one guy, whom I am not naming (Hint: It was not Brad Thor, except that it was) and whom I did not mentally undress all morning (I did so) because I’m all about personal growth (#PersonalGrowthFail) and I’m doing much better (lotsa work to do).

Very few of us see the bookstore this early and in this otherworldly hush. Some mornings, I crank the tunes in my headphones and motor my way through the carts, shelving new books, counting the ones we have, pulling off returns, whatever task I’m given. Other days, I leave the headphones dangling and enjoy the quiet offerings of an entire building full of stories new and old. There is history, here. There is love and hate, murder and rescue, bravery and savagery, law and war and food and all the issues of a planet teeming with life. Here be dragons, yes, and devils and knights, and anything else one could want or imagine. Art. Poetry. Pirates. Sorcery. Fishing. Gardening. Boxing. Time travel. Raising a family. Protecting bees. Fixing your car.  Returning evil rings to a grave of molten rock. Falling in love with something not quite human.  Eating like a caveman. Catching a killer.

<Good morning, ladies of SciFi/Fantasy>

The money I’m making from my writing is fairly good now, and I could probably let my  job at the bookstore go. But why would anyone want to do that? I’ve been at this store for fifteen years. I am so delighted when I discover a new writer, or find that a writer I already love has a new release, or I’m able to build a display of books full of favorite reads and staff picks. And I’ve learned a lot about the business of book selling that certainly gives me a different perspective when I do sell my own books. Some mornings, it’s very difficult to haul my tired ass out of bed at four, and shove my legs into whatever pants I grab in the dark, and shuffle out the door to work. But every single time I leave work, I float. Between mornings at the bookstore and days at my desk writing, I am exactly where I want to be. I can’t imagine a better job for a writer.

(Note: A.J. Aalto is currently enduring the painful but exhilarating editorial process before the release of the third book in the Marnie Baranuik Files, Last Impressions. If she eats all your cookies, please take into account that she is at this time non compos mentis and cannot be held responsible for her cookie thievery.)