THE BOOKSHOP IS IMAGINARY. THE BOOK CLUB IS REAL. COME READ WITH ME.

Okay so here’s the deal. A couple days ago I wrote a love letter to my ADHD about The Magpie’s Library — the queer-centered cozy-magical bookmobile that exists entirely in a folder on my computer and, briefly, in a dream. The post was about not buying a step van. It was about how the brain that takes a single image and runs it all the way to wireframes-by-lunch is also a brain worth loving, even when the thing it built doesn’t get to be real yet. I meant it. I’m also, however, a person who can’t leave a good idea on the floor. Because here’s the thing. The shop doesn’t exist. But the books exist. The list of books I’d put on those imaginary shelves is sitting right there, in a file called reading-queue.md, twenty-something hand-picked queer / Indigenous / cozy / local / sapphic / SFF titles that I’ve been planning to read anyway so I can hand-sell them with conviction to people walking into a van that has not yet been purchased. And the people who would walk into that van? They also…