A friend said she saw a stack of my older books for $3 each at a big-box store between the adult colouring books and men’s underwear. “You’ve made it!” she said. The Royal British Columbia Museum has a superb book section, predominantly non-fiction, and lately, I have been a good customer there. I love used books, though. Truth be known, I have tremendous anxiety in our lovely city bookshops that sell new books, and at times have had to rapidly escape into the fresh air to cool down and lower my heart rate. But in a used bookstore, that musty pungent yellowed paper fragrance, the faded and stained pink velour sofas, the coffee and the date square on mismatched china, or two eccentrics talking philosophy in the corner, well, it’s just less stressful.