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Forget about that guy who has won 15 Grammys. Whose band, Foo Fighters, has sold nearly 30 million records. The Emmy-winning director who has appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone numerous times and was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame as the frenetic, powerhouse drummer for Nirvana. Who has performed at the White House and on Saturday Night Live, was invited by Dave Letterman to play “Everlong” as the credits rolled on his final show—and who once jammed with the Muppets. Let’s talk, instead, about Dave Grohl’s mom. Virginia Grohl—Ginny to her friends—is a warm, book-loving woman with a mop of dark hair who looks younger than her 79 years, especially today, with her slash of red lipstick and bright crimson scarf. Her assistant, Joe Zymblosky, has brought several wardrobe options for this publicity shoot at the Black Cat, and he observes approvingly, occasionally jumping onto the stage to help get the look just right. Lisa, Dave’s older sister, is here, too, part of their mom’s small entourage in from Los Angeles. The entourage also includes Lisa’s cat.

Shortly after I turned in my new novel, The Stager, my editor sent me a startling black and white photograph of a woman in a chair. The woman is in a state of graceful repose, with long legs extending into strappy black shoes. She is sultry, sexy, and extremely unsettling. She appears to be beautiful even though you cannot see her face because she is wearing a mask. The art director was suggesting updating this image to use as the cover of the book. It was apparently an iconic Bauhaus photograph. I could toss the word Bauhaus around as well as the next person, but to be honest, I didn’t really know what it meant, apart from having something to do with Germany and a slim treatise on architecture by Tom Wolfe. That Bauhaus might also involve Jungian images of women in chairs was surprising; more puzzling was what this had to do with my novel — a dark comedy about home staging set in suburban Maryland. But to be honest, I didn’t really care. I loved this photograph in all its weirdness and, more to the point, I was just relieved that no one was proposing slapping on my novel the image of a woman holding a briefcase, a baby, or a mop. The updated image that was created for the book jacket hewed closely to the original, but now that it was infused with color and light, not to mention the comical silhouette of the belligerent rabbit who plays a central role in the book, the cover seemed more playful than spooky — or so I thought. Not everyone I showed it to agreed; my agent reported that the British publishers thought the cover was “too S&M,” for example.

The rules of shelving can seem arbitrary, even arcane, but the fundamentals are easy to learn: two hard covers, and no more than three paperbacks of the same title, on each shelf.  The exception is the face-out. If the jacket is displayed horizontally, behind it you can stack as many books as can fit. Turning a book face out is an act of tremendous power, or so it feels when you are working at an independent bookstore at a moment that has major chains shrinking and Amazon wreaking havoc with publishing’s already fragile ecosystem. In a bookstore, you can decide, unilaterally, without having to ask permission or sit in an hour-long meeting, to simply face out Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance because, well, because it’s one of your favorite books, and it also solves the problem of what to do with the space left by your desire to consolidate the David Mitchells, which means moving them all to the shelf below.