The publication of the last of the Harry Potter series has been a spectacle. There are many reasons to be in awe of J. K. Rowling’s accomplishment. She has written books that are brilliant as story-telling and are matched as commerce in the way they have been marketed. Rarely does an author combine the creative act of writing books with a branding sense that is aggressive yet, in its way, respectful of the characters. The Harry Potter juggernaut of movies and related product is an enterprise so vast that Rowling is now a billionaire, richer than Queen Elizabeth.

What I’ve read about how this empire is managed credits Rowling’s literary agent, Christopher Little, with its astute direction. But my impression is that Rowling sets her own standards for commercial extensions of the books. In his lifetime, Theodore Geisel (a.k.a. Dr. Seuss) kept a firm grip on how his characters were portrayed beyond the page. But since his death, his estate has turned Seuss into an entertainment conglomerate with cheesy movies, soft puppets, and other stuff that I suspect would have made Geisel cringe yet has made a ton of money for everyone else. The release of HP 7, as it is known in the book world, has been a logistical triumph as well as a literary one. The simultaneous unveiling of the book in outlets across the country—something like 12 million were sold almost immediately—has shown how efficient publishing and retailing can be. Congratulations to all concerned. Long live Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling.

And then, there is the rest of the book business.

Every so often, I am in the position of being a “civilian,” a would-be customer for a book I’d like to read, say, on vacation. What I invariably learn is that the book world is asphyxiating itself with inefficiency and ingrained habits. The same day as HP 7 was flying off the shelves, the New York Times Book Review had a front-page rave for a new book by Wilfred Sheed, an author of many previous works. This one is called The House That George Built: With a Little Help from Irving, Cole, and a Crew of Fifty. The subject is classic American music of the mid-twentieth century. The reviewer, Garrison Keillor, wrote that Sheed’s jazzy prose is “a joy to read.” I had also heard the book touted by Jonathan Schwartz, whose public and satellite radio programming of this music makes him a superstar for fans of the genre, of which I am one.

I located the book on Amazon, where it was #36 on the top 100 bestsellers, with a note that it would be available in two to five weeks, meaning I would not have it for when I wanted it: now. Over the next day or two, I put in calls to a dozen bookstores in and around New York City trying to locate a copy. There were none to be had at either chains or independent stores. Every person I spoke to provided a different explanation for the situation. One bookseller insisted the book had not yet been published. Several others said they had sold out, but not reordered. A few offered to “special order” the book but weren’t sure when it might arrive. One chain person said she would see if a copy might be available elsewhere in the region, but I would have to drive there to pick it up. No one could actually sell me the book.

Finally, I went back to Amazon. The book was now #24 on their bestseller list and was discounted by 30 percent. I ordered it, betting that Amazon’s policy of “under-promise and over-deliver” meant that I would actually get the book in about two weeks instead of five. You’ll note that I have not named the stores or the publisher involved in this account because it is not my intention to embarrass anyone in particular. I am a publisher too and the problems of supply and distribution I encountered are—aside from Potter and some other megasellers—endemic to the whole industry. My guess is that Sheed’s book was a “mid-list” title, based on his sales track and the subject, which means that less than 10,000 copies were shipped based on initial expectations. Then the reviews began to appear—in addition to the New York Times, there were the Washington Post and the New York Review of Books. A reprint was doubtless ordered, but supply instantly dried up, meaning that at the point the book was most visible in reviews, it was no longer available. As a business proposition, that is crazy.

For almost two years, I have been working with a group of publishers and retailers on The Caravan Project, based at The Century Foundation, to deal with these issues of distribution. Had the Sheed been offered to me as an audio book, I might have bought it. Print-on-demand technology could have made the book available for shipping while a larger reprint was prepared. In any case, not one bookseller made a concerted effort to actually sell me the book and promise to send it to me as soon as possible and by the fastest means. The money that I was ready to spend—$29.95 plus tax, shipping, and handling—stayed in my pocket. Late in the week, I got an e-mail from Amazon saying that the book would be available sooner than forecast. Moreover, a second book I had ordered would be sent immediately and there would be no separate charge for postage. In the worst week on Wall Street in five years, Amazon stock went up 17 percent based on its very strong revenues. Performance counts.

Publishers and booksellers do something that the public wants—provide them with information and entertainment. At its best, the book industry competes with mass media in popularity. But the publishing business is still way behind where it needs to be in this hypercompetitive world. And that is much more than just a pity.

Peter Osnos is Senior Fellow for Media at The Century Foundation. Sign-up to receive Osnos’ columns weekly by email here. Read past columns here.