I Came to Browse, Not Bond!
Escaping the Bookshop Sales Ambush
There was a time not so long ago, when stepping into a bookshop felt like entering a temple. The hush. The smell of freshly printed pages. The subtle thrill of discovering a hidden gem on the bottom shelf. I could lose hours wandering the aisles, romantically pondering whether I was in the mood for dystopian misery or a cosy whodunnit with a cat on the cover.
And then Waterstones hired a SWAT team of overly enthusiastic literary evangelists.
Honestly, I can't so much as glance at a book now without someone materialising beside me like an excitable ghost, breathlessly informing me that this book changed their life. No hello, no warning... just BAM: "Oh my god, I love that one so much, I literally couldn't put it down!"
Well, that's lovely Georgina, but I just picked it up because the cover had a fox in a jumper and I thought it looked mildly seasonal.
Don't get me wrong, I admire their passion. I really do. But the moment I walk into Waterstones, it's like I'm starring in a badly scripted episode of The Apprentice: Bookseller Edition. I'm pretty sure if I reached out to straighten a crooked bookmark, a staff member would pop up from behind a cardboard cut-out of David Walliams and whisper, "Excellent choice... I recommended that one to my mum, and now she's in therapy!"
And should I make the colossal error of actually picking up a book and turning it over to read the back cover? Oh dear. I might as well be slapping my bank card on the counter and shouting, "Wrap it up and charge me twice!"
Before I've even finished the second sentence of the blurb, someone is at my side again... this time telling me their colleague Sharon from the crime section "cried so hard at the ending she couldn't speak for days."
Well, I'd like to finish the back cover blurb before I emotionally commit, thanks.
It's not just the ambush, it's the relentlessness of it. Every book has apparently been read, loved, and personally blessed by at least three members of staff and possibly their neighbour's dog. You know that little table labelled "Our Staff Picks"? Yeah, the whole shop is one big staff pick now.
At this point, I'm genuinely considering disguising myself as a shelf just to get some peace. Maybe wear beige and lean very still in the corner between Popular Psychology and Books Nobody Really Buys But Still Get Printed.
I long for the days when bookshops were hushed, mysterious places... where you could lurk for hours judging covers without fear of being emotionally manipulated into buying a book you didn't even want. Now it's like being on a high-pressure game show where the prize is a paperback you feel too guilty to put back.
And what's maddening is this overzealous salesmanship isn't helping. It's terrifying. Shoppers are visibly edging toward the exits, clutching their coats like shields. It's less "browsing for escapism" and more "being chased around by someone who thinks the Booker Prize is a personality trait."
In fact, I'm convinced Waterstones staff are trained at some kind of boot camp. "Week 1: Ambush Tactics. Week 2: Emotional Blackmail via Book Recommendation. Week 3: How to Corner Customers by the Cookbooks and Guilt Them Into Reading More Margaret Atwood."
And look, I'm not a monster. I know they mean well. I know it's all driven by targets and metrics and some manager in a suit who thinks the key to selling fiction is tactical pouncing. But honestly? The only story I want to be part of is one where I get to browse in peace without being emotionally held hostage by someone with a tote bag and a passion for post-apocalyptic fiction.
So please Waterstones, dial it down. Give us back the romantic charm, the solitude, the quiet joy of unpressured discovery.
Because if I wanted a hard sell every time I glanced at a product, I'd just shop on Amazon… in my pyjamas… with the blinds drawn.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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