The Whisperers

On bookstores, celebrity shelves, and what lingers beyond the noise

I used to walk into a bookstore excited to see all the books on the shelves. At our local Barnes & Noble, coming into the entrance was like a child going into a candy store. Books sit on tables asking us to look at them. I stare at the one with the latest novels and then my eye moves over to a “getting personal” section. On that shelf, I see Henry Winkler’s memoir on his days as the Fonz and his subsequent career. There is Spare with Prince Harry on the cover and another one from John Stamos, famous for his role in Full House, about a family living in San Francisco. On a shelf just to the side are the “New Releases.” I spot the authors’ names. One pops out at me. James Comey. Last I remember, he was hiding from the President in the back of the room. Then, he was gone. No longer FBI director.

Now I spot him up on the shelf, having written a novel. As I look around I begin to see something else in this bookstore. I go to the Science section where I see famous scientists known for their work. In Psychology, we have Gladwell, Pinker, Sacks—the usual suspects. In Biography, we have books from former Ivy League presidents, famous U.S. presidents, and a few from celebrities.

I always saw Barnes & Noble as a place filled with wonder and of keen interest. It was a place where I would go to enrich myself and learn.

But then I tried to write one of those books myself. Writing is hard. It takes time and it often comes in fits and starts. My book Mastery never made it into Barnes & Noble. You can order it online, but on a shelf? No chance. And I’ve come to suspect something else: most of those names on the bestseller tables don’t write their books alone. They have ghostwriters, researchers, whole teams polishing every line. That was when I realized: the shelves of our most popular bookstores don’t reward the words themselves. They reward the scream. Celebrities right the write books.* Or do the right books write themselves? These days, even algorithms can polish the sentences, making the screams louder still. But a whisper, no matter how imperfect, is what carries after the shouting fades.

And yet, I wonder about all the people, like me, who are not on those shelves. What do we have to say? Something quieter, maybe: words about how children switch languages mid-sentence, how memory clings to a grandmother’s house in San Luis Potosí, how silence can be its own kind of fluency. Those are not screams. They are whispers. A low hum you only notice if you stop to listen.

I have come to the conclusion that screaming doesn’t work anymore. The world is filled with megaphones and manufactured echoes. But a whisper does something else: it draws you closer. It asks you to lean in. It lingers after the noise has faded.

So I choose to be a whisperer. If you are one too, reach out. Lest the screamers shout us into oblivion.

* Yes, I meant “right the write.” A stumble left in on purpose, a reminder that not everything polished is true.