A New Chapter, Literally

At 74, most people are settling down. Slowing the pace. Reflecting on what they’ve done. Me? I’m opening a bookstore.

It’s not a retirement project. It’s not a nostalgic nod to the past. It’s the most alive I’ve felt in a long time, and maybe the most connected I’ve ever felt to everything I’ve done before. Because this bookstore, in some strange and beautiful way, ties it all together: the writing, the editing, the film festivals, the artists, the conversations, the chaos. It’s not an ending. It’s another beginning.

The Magic of Physical Space

There’s something sacred about a bookstore. It’s not just the books, though I could spend hours talking about first editions, strange out-of-print titles, or why some dog-eared paperback can feel more valuable than a rare collectible. It’s about the space itself. The slowness. The invitation to explore. The unspoken permission to sit with ideas, to wander, to stumble upon something unexpected and be changed by it.

In a world that feels increasingly digital, fragmented, and performative, I wanted to create a space that was the opposite: grounded, intentional, human. A place where people still talk face to face. Where you might walk in for a novel and leave with a new friend—or at least a really good poem in your back pocket.

More Than a Store

I’ve never been interested in selling things just to sell them. I’ve always been more fascinated by what things mean. A film isn’t just a product: it’s a voice, a story, a reflection of someone’s soul. The same goes for books. That’s why this store won’t be just shelves and transactions. It’ll be a meeting place. A space for discovery. A home for conversations that don’t fit in 280 characters or soundbites.

There will be readings, yes. Author visits, sure. But there will also be nights where we read something out loud just because it moved us. Mornings where someone sets up a folding chair with coffee and reads quietly for hours. Impromptu discussions about music, movies, life. I want this place to be a little chaotic, a little unpredictable, and full of possibility.

The Long Thread

Looking back, everything I’ve done has been about lifting up stories. Whether it was co-founding The Austin Chronicle, launching SXSW, or championing independent filmmakers who had something real to say, it’s always been about creating space for voices that might otherwise be drowned out.

Opening this bookstore feels like returning to that mission—but with more peace, more focus. I don’t need to prove anything. I just want to make room for ideas, for dialogue, for people.

And books, in their quiet way, still have the power to do that. They slow you down. They invite empathy. They connect generations, disciplines, and dreams. I love that a bookstore can be the kind of place where a 19-year-old college student and a 74-year-old guy like me can both walk in and find something that matters.

What I Hope Happens

I don’t have big financial expectations. I’m not launching a franchise. I’m not looking for a viral Instagram moment. What I want is something simpler, but harder to measure: I want people to feel something when they walk in.

I want the space to feel like it’s always been there even though it’s new. I want someone to come in lost and leave with something that helps them feel a little more found. I want laughter. I want arguments about favorite authors. I want people to get weird, to get real, to get inspired.

I hope kids wander in and ask too many questions. I hope older folks come in and remember something they thought they’d forgotten. I hope artists and loners and book nerds and curious wanderers all find their way to the same dusty shelf—and end up in conversation.

Why Now?

People keep asking me, “Why now?” Why not just relax? Travel? Write a memoir? But the truth is, this is the thing. This is what I want to do. It’s the physical manifestation of everything I’ve ever cared about: culture, connection, curiosity. And I finally have the time and maybe the wisdom to do it the way I want.

Also, frankly, we need more third places. Not work. Not home. But that in-between place where people can show up as themselves and be welcomed. Bookstores, at their best, have always been that. I want to help build one that lives up to the idea.

Come On In

So, that’s why I’m opening a bookstore at 74. Not because I’m bored. Not because I’m trying to relive the past. But because I still believe in the power of stories. In the magic of a shared moment. In the way a single sentence can change your whole week.

I hope you’ll come by. I hope you’ll sit down. I hope you’ll find something that surprises you.

Because if there’s one thing life, comic books, indie films and late-night conversations—has taught me, it’s that the best stories never really end. They just keep unfolding.

And this next chapter? It’s going to be a good one.