When I found out that I was going to be reading my first novel at Cody’s, it was quite literally a dream come true. Many times as I toiled away, hoping I could finish and then sell my first book, I often daydreamed about it. Even after getting a book deal and seeing the book in print, the Cody’s reading was something special. So Friday morning as I flew in from Seattle at the end of the first leg of my book tour, I could hardly contain my excitement as I thought about that night’s reading at Cody’s. As I unlocked my front door and hauled my bag into my apartment, I got the call. I would not be doing a reading at Cody’s that night, because Cody’s had closed its doors.

For good. Just like that. After 52 years and countless lives changed.

I began spending a lot of time in Cody’s in 1984. When I was supposed to be studying, or when the stress and trials of my freshman year at Berkeley got to be too much, I would escape from my dorm and race down Telegraph Avenue into one of the best refuges there ever was. Cody’s was a book lover's dream. Shelves and shelves of books on every topic imaginable. I still remember what it felt like to walk into that store. A deep lungful of air after not breathing for too long. Outside, the worries and pressures of my life. Inside, the world of stories and ideas and thoughts of the future. They were used to students with thin wallets in that store, and no one ever seemed to mind that I would wander around for an hour and come out with one paperback--or with nothing other than ideas and joy. I learned to value books and bookstores at places like Cody’s, so that in later years when I did have money to spend, independent bookstores were the first places I went. I’m a writer today at least in part because of independent bookstores like Cody’s, and I’m sure I’m not alone.

I waited outside Cody’s a few minutes before my reading was scheduled to make sure to intercept any of my friends who might not have received my frantic email about the cancellation. I watched as people came by, and tried to open the door. They tried once, twice, three times. Then saw the sign on the door saying only that Cody’s was closed. Then they tried the door again. Then cupped their hands around their eyes to peer in the window, trying to see if anyone was there. No one believed the sign. It couldn’t be true. Not just like that. Not Cody’s. It was so incredible that people didn’t trust the evidence. There must be some mistake, they all seemed to be thinking.

I thought of all sorts of things to say here. That we need to support the independent bookstores we have left. That we need to spend our money at Book Passage, and Kepler’s and Stacey’s and Rakestraw, at Powell’s and Tattered Cover, and at Village Books. That we need to fight the complacency and cynicism that lead us to say, “of course independent bookstores are closing, it’s the way the market is going.” But we all know that already. So I guess I’m just saying that I’m sad Cody’s is gone. And yet. The day after Cody’s closed I bought a hardcover at Black Oak. And since have done the same at Book Passage, Stacey’s and at Kepler’s. I have to admit it’s not because of any highly moral decision to shop locally and support independent bookstores for the sake of changing the book industry. I did it because I don’t want them to go away. Because when I walk into one of those bookstores I have the same feeling I had when I was eighteen. The same deep breath of air, the same shrugging off of stress and weariness. The same joy. And because I don’t want that to end.