Barnes & Noble’s real problem

In praise of chunky scale

In today’s New York Times David Carr has a lovely valediction, a kind of pre-mortem,called “Why Barnes & Noble Is Good for Amazon” in which he argues that despite the recent departure of CEO William Lynch, Jr. and general failure of the Nook rival to Amazon’s Kindle platform, the future of the iconic bookseller is better than dim if less than bright.

Carr gets right how B&N can function as a“third place between work and home where people sought respite and diversion. With its high ceilings, wide aisles and a large Starbucks, it is the kind of retail outlet that gives big-box stores a good name.”

What Carr misses, though, is how the concrete and geographical particularness of a third space (to nod at Ray Oldenburg’s “The Great Good Place”) is irredeemably at odds with the need for scale and growth within any publicly-traded company.

I live in a tiny little town just south of Portland, Oregon, but when the Borders Books & Music at the Bridgeport Shopping Mall in nearby Tigard went belly up I didn’t worry because we have Powell’s — greatest of all independent bookstores in the U.S. — just a few minutes’ drive from my house.

But I was wrong not to worry.

The bookstore-less mall was less interesting and I found myself making shorter trips, shopping less, hanging around less, eating fewer meals except during a rare movie outing. So when the long-vacant Borders location suddenly morphed into a Barnes & Noble I rejoiced and vowed to spend money there in order to keep it around, and I have.

I vote with my dollars and will continue to do so, even though I can get just about every book cheaper at Amazon or do a better deed for independent bookstores everywhere by supporting Powell’s.

But I want a bookstore near my home, so I go to B&N nearby.

However, every time I buy a book at Barnes & Noble the cashier asks if I’m a member, and I don’t join because my membership won’t help the Tigard, Oregon location a bit— I don’t have a chance to join a club for my Barnes & Noble, just for the big, publicly-traded corporation.

And that’s a missed opportunity.

I understand that scale is the life’s blood of corporations, but it doesn’t have to be flat scale. Scale, like peanut butter, comes in both smooth and chunky* varieties.

Flat or smooth scale doesn’t distinguish among communities or customers.

In contrast, chunky scale aggregates micro-communities and then pushes them together.

What Barnes & Noble should do is let my loyalty be to the store near my town, and let me build points for that store.

Let the Tigard, Oregon Barnes & Noble hoist a flag for book lovers in the neighborhoods that surround the store so that in the long dry season between Christmases we have a reason to shop there rather than online.

Let the local schools and book clubs join as members to give their dollars a second value— which is to keep a physical browsing and meeting space viable in our community.

How hard could this be?

* My notion of chunky scale is indebted to my friend Grant McCracken’s thoughts on chunky marketing: http://cultureby.com/chunky-marketing.