End Pages.
Or, what I learned from visiting 25 Torontonian bookstores, and why I had to close mine.
It would have been The Penny University Bookstore’s 4th birthday yesterday. I say ‘would have’, because the bookstore is now gone.
I just couldn’t do it any more.
For four years, my bookstore had been my whole world. I live just two blocks away from it, so the space became almost an extension of my own house. I used to joke that my To Be Read pile grew so large at home that I had no choice but to open up shop. My children would end up there after school every time I worked late — or more frequently, whenever Milo forgot his door key. Our cat took up residence in the store as our ‘Head of Marketing’. My store manager filmed videos for her Youtube channel there, after hours. The local daycare did ‘field trips’ to the store, marching a dozen three year olds in for Storytime long after my own children aged out and started school. My friends gathered there for our book group in the evenings. People came in, not always to browse books, but often just to chat to me or my staff as we provided a friendly space in between appointments, or on the school-run, or in which to shelter from Saskatchewan’s extremes of temperature.
It took time, but my store gradually became a refuge where readers could lose themselves in stories and catch a break from the chaos of life during and post-pandemic. Like many of the bookstores I visited in Toronto, we quickly became a hub, not just for book lovers and writers, but for the local queer community, and, perhaps inevitably, for the small Progressive contingent in Regina. Our most well-attended event was a book launch for A Healthy Future, written by the former leader of the provincial NDP, Dr. Ryan Meili. This was closely followed by the launch of a book about labour unions and the local Co-Op Refinery. Our biggest fiction event was for a non-binary author whose Young Adult novel is loosely based on the tales of King Arthur, but with queer and trans characters and set in downtown Vancouver. I have always appreciated the sheer variety of books that came our way through the bookstore, especially in a city as small as Regina.
Yet, as with many independent bookstores across Canada, the dream that once fueled my endeavour has reached its sombre end. Our events were wonderful, the people who came to visit us to chat were lovely, so were the daycare outings, and the book groups… but none of those things ever made us much money. A particularly blunt friend of mine once pointed out that unless I was actually making a profit, I didn’t have a business, I had an expensive hobby. That remark stung me enough to stay with me long after I lost touch with her. In the summer of 2024, I had to face the fact that the bookstore was not only an expensive hobby, it was rapidly turning into a financial black hole. The time had come to cut my losses and say goodbye.
Even with a mountain of debt hanging over me, the decision to close was not made lightly. Every book that adorned our shelves, every event we hosted, every customer who walked through the door was a testament to my team’s commitment and love for the literary world. We had hoped to offer a space that transcended mere retail; I had named the bookstore after places where ideas could be exchanged. The original Penny Universities were the coffee houses of 17th century London. Places, it was said, where you could get a university education for the price of a one-penny cup of coffee just by listening to the animated conversations and debates that took place within them. I’d wanted to build a place where local authors could thrive, and where readers could find a sense of belonging. In those respects, I had succeeded. Yet, despite my best efforts, I found myself grappling with financial realities that no amount of passion could overcome.
For most, as I found continuously in Toronto, the dream of running an independent bookstore is a labour of love. That love can be for the books themselves, as evidenced by the array of used, rare and antiquarian book collectors and dealers I met. Or it can be a personal mission, such as the founders of A Different Booklist trying to preserve and showcase the history of their community, or the owners of Caversham Books educating people on mental health issues. Different again were the ‘themed’ bookstores, the horror books at Little Ghosts, the sci-fi wonderland at Re:Reading, and even the love of all things oceanic at The Nautical Mind. All the bookstores in Toronto were very different, but the owners were united by their passion for literature.
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I can’t imagine many of them getting into this business solely for the money, because we all know there’s very little of that. In Toronto, I wasn’t hunting specifically for methods of making a quick buck for my store; I had started my bookstore odyssey looking for hope. I wanted to find inspiration from my fellow store owners, and comradery around the challenges we all face. I found it in abundance.
But then, I thought again of Ben McNally’s store having to move out from its original, beautiful location. BMV cutting its café hours down to the bare minimum. Glad Day books having to crowdfund to stay afloat. These literary labours of love are often accompanied by personal sacrifice and we were no exception to this. I did not take a salary in four years, and felt guilty if I dared take a day off. I poured everything I had — my time, energy, and money into creating a space that would enrich our community, only to find that it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. The financial strain was relentless, and bibliophilia alone does not pay the bills.
The independent bookstore industry in Canada has long been a challenging one. Small bookstores face myriad obstacles: competition from online giants, fluctuating economic conditions, the ever-rising costs of operation, oh, and global pandemics. For me, it was the Canada Emergency Business Account (CEBA) loan that was the killing blow. I had felt so relieved when I was able to pay it off in January by refinancing, but in doing so, all I had achieved was a delay to the inevitable. Debt is the ultimate passion-killer, creeping up on you until it gets the chance to bleed you dry. And it is a slow and painful death.
Running out of money was not just a practical issue; it was deeply personal. Each tax return, each credit card statement felt like a harsh reminder of the fragility of my dream. I watched as our revenue fell short of our expenses, despite our best efforts to adapt and innovate. Events that once drew crowds now struggled to attract attendees, and the influx of new book releases, while exciting, failed to translate into the financial stability we desperately needed.
The closing of The Penny University Bookstore is not unique, it is emblematic of a broader trend within the industry. There is an argument to be made that the vanishing of spaces like mine reflects a broader shift in how we interact with literature and culture in an increasingly digital and commercialised world. But I am not going to make that argument myself. My experience with my bookstore, and my trip around the similar stores in Toronto has taught me the opposite — it is not the case that people don’t read any more. Some people appear to be reading more than ever. I did have a great many loyal, returning customers. But I had far more of them when I put the books on sale.
Books are one of life’s little luxuries — a chance to slow down and learn something, find a new way to fall in love, or enjoy a dash of escapism. I often benefited from impulse purchases — it is difficult for many to enter a bookstore and leave with just one book. Even those organised people who pre-ordered new releases and came in, beaming and proud, to collect their orders on Publication Day, would leave with many other books that happened to catch their eye on the way to my cash desk. However, as these tough economic times become more pronounced, when people are struggling to buy groceries or put gas in their car, spending $35 on a new hardcover book becomes far less of a priority. Books are necessary for an enjoyable life, but not as necessary as paying your rent.
As I prepared to shut our doors, my staff and I were filled with a profound sense of loss. It is a loss for the community that embraced us, for the authors whose works we championed, and for ourselves, who dreamed of making a difference through the simple act of sharing books. I have spent considerable time recently wandering around Regina, slowly processing my grief. The small city means I walk the same neighbourhoods that my bookstore served. The freeing anonymity I feel in the crowded streets of Toronto cannot exist here: too many people know me. I see the concern on their faces, the looks of pity. As I head to my favourite coffee shop, the local plumber sees me and crosses the street to give me a hug. The barista gives me a hefty discount on my Americano. One of the authors whose books I stocked is sitting in the coffee shop with her laptop, hard at work editing her next novel. She gifts me an advanced reader copy of it.
“You probably don’t need any more books right now,” she grins apologetically, “I just wanted you to have this. Thank you for all you’ve done for us starving artists.”
Even in this moment of sorrow, choked as I am, I recognise the value of the experience we gained. The friendships forged, the stories shared, and the impact we had, however fleeting, are all part of a legacy that extends beyond the closing of the bookstore.
As I close this chapter, I do so with gratitude for the support we received and with hope for the future. While my bookstore may be gone, the stories and experiences I shared with the bookstore owners I met during my journey across Toronto will continue to resonate. The independent bookstore industry may be fraught with challenges and not all of us can survive. Those that do — and they are numerous — form a testament to the enduring power of literature and community. In the quiet after the final sale at The Penny University bookstore, I find solace in the knowledge that there are spaces where books, and the people who love them, continue to matter.
