Before Black Clock 12 ‘s release reading in September, editors Bruce Bauman and Steve Erickson looked at each other—this was one the first meetings with the new interns—and agreed Skylight Books was one of the few, good independent book stores around. Really, they couldn’t think of others that have survived Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and the well-told condition of the publishing world nearly as well. In the recent “Best Of” issue, LA Weekly pitched Skylight as the “Indie-est Indie Bookstore,” topping Book Soup based mostly on its high-falutin’—“the Botoxed celebs, and the hellish parking situation, and the almost certain fact that you will have a ticket for not rotating your wheels toward the curb upon your return”—location. This is not to criticize—being new to L.A., I sometimes find myself enamored by the Botoxed celebs—as Book Soup does many similar things for contemporary reading as Skylight, and my one dig against Skylight, like Book Soup, is the parking situation. Maybe this is an L.A. dig. Steve and Bruce both pointed this out too: Be sure to go early if headed to one of the store’s many events. That said, above all, be sure to check out the events. The bookstore manages to bring tons of great authors to read and discuss their works. Even a cursory glance at the store’s calendar will show Skylight is constantly hosting a diverse group of artists. In the last two months, they’ve had James Ellroy, Tao Lin, Rick Moody, and even Judd Apatow to name a few. Yet, Skylight manages, as they claim, to be “what a neighborhood book store should be.”
“The neighborhood is trendy,” this is what a Hollywood local told me, “Yeah, kind of artsy, I guess.” The nearest Borders is two miles away. The nearest Starbucks, respectively, is at the end of the block, far from Skylight and businesses like Pyschobabble Café, Squaresville, Fred 62 (after the reading, a fellow CalArts MFA student said, “Man, you’ve got to eat there. It’s like a big thing,” so we went) and PopKiller. Yet, Skylight is far from trendy. They’re real and concerned. Just read the online reviews or go in and ask if it’s the culture of the neighborhood that’s made them so unique. They’ll say, “Well, I hope it’s actually that we’ve got a level of expertise.” This was my experience. Skylight is simultaneously from the Los Feliz neighborhood and beyond it, encompassing all of Los Angeles—they brought in Judd Apatow, remember—to become the city’s best vehicle to a national and international literary world. This is the feeling I get as I go. This comes just before the optimistic (is this a fallacy?) realization people do read books that aren’t written by Sarah Palin, Snookie, or Mario Lopez and even that there’s a productive literary culture still creating art. It’s intimidating, reassuring, and exciting for a young writer. I think: This is why I have come to Los Angeles to study. There’s opportunity—and maybe this is a fallacy too, but like the last it’s something I have to live on—if you want to work to find it. But this is about Skylight.
Like most real bookstores—this is told to me because my undergraduate college experience was spent in orders from Hastings and Amazon—employees have personalized favorite lists that are easy to delve into. This isn’t unlike the science behind Pandora or, sadly I admit, Amazon—“You might also like…”—just more intimate. I think even Borders is doing something like this now. Of course, independent bookstores did it first, but even in the rural, off-grid manner that my parents raised me in almost no independent bookstores existed. If I didn’t order a book through the Northwest Public Library or if neither my mom nor dad had it, I didn’t read it. So in ways, experiencing Skylight is new and nostalgic. They’ve got a collection of zines—available online because this is how a small bookstore survives—and chapbooks. They’ve a full collection of L.A. literature. They’ve a collection of real poets: Recently, Eileen Myles was in and now signed copies of her new novel, Inferno (A Poet’s Novel), are available on the shelves. They even have a special section for L.A. poets. Through talking with one of the workers, I got turned onto a great book by Pat Lawrence, Bedford, I’m confident I would never found otherwise. Not only do people here read; L.A. reads a lot. Skylight—I get this as I ask, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”—is a knowledgeable community center celebrating literature.
For the Black Clock 12 reading there was standing room only. Bruce thanked everyone for coming(I think he said “Wow.”) and tossed up that Steve was probably somewhere enjoying a black russian before telling how the manager who’d just introduced him was a CalArts alum. This isn’t a shout out to CalArts. I just think it speaks to the community. Skylight is a neighborhood bookstore, welcoming, comfortable—there’s a tree inside, a high, domelike wood ceiling with skylights, and an open arrangement of shelves that invite movement—and intelligent but hip. Our reading was on a Sunday. The Post Office across the street was closed, so parking was free if only with a small risk; my other experiences have been cruising the side streets for a meter but if you’re of the mind, try L.A.’s metro (red line stop at Sunset and Vermont). But please don’t be deterred by parking. The effort is worth it. It’s not a tourist trap promising so much that seems aggressively used up by the time you make it. It’s Bruce giving away Black Clock garb to anyone who can answer: “Who was the only pitcher to ever throw a no-hitter on acid?” It’s Tod Goldberg rasping about golf and character Kip’s struggle with The Yips. It’s Paul Cullum reading his piece, “Why I Hate Sports” for all those who aren’t fanatics. It’s the comment from the front row, “Who scheduled this the same time as the best [football] game of the day?” just after Monica Carter spins Brett Farve’s thoughts during the biggest game of his literally endless career. There’s fulfillment and hope. It makes me realize a romantic thought about the culture of writing isn’t too ridiculous because there’s something intangible shared at Skylight that talks to that.
by Justus Caudell
an Editorial Assistant for Black Clock and an MFA Writing candidate at CalArts
