I Broke Up With Bookclubs

Despite my passionate and abiding love of reading, a love that stayed alive through an English degree and far too many dead white guy essays, a love that sustained me through the awfulness of teen years and a family undone, a very tactile sort of love that marks the books I’ve read with dog-ears, water-wrinkled pages and bookmarks like breadcrumbs, despite my desire to talk about and pass along the books I have mauled with my love, I broke up with bookclubs.

Bookclubs, in my experience, have failed to live up to my relationship with books.

The first one filled me with optimism: I went to the first meeting with the book read and cross referenced despite the very young baby I had shredding my attention span at home. I was so excited to talk to other grown up people! About a book! I brought a notepad and collateral reading material to that meeting along with my hors d’oeuvre. We were gathered in someone’s living room in a circle. The room filled up with plates and women. To my utter dismay they never talked about the book. They talked about their babies. I was tongue tied with frustration. It is possible that I wept on my way home. I had stolen from precious little sleep to read that book, fought to get a night out.  I wanted a bookclub not a group hug.

The next bookclub was by a friend’s invitation. I essentially crashed their cozy get togethers and quickly became the group’s serious girl, constantly wanting to bring the conversation back from the recipe for the (admittedly delicious) lemon squares to the book. This bookclub wanted to read good books but they also wanted a monthly night out. Some wine. Some lively conversation with a book on the side, like salad. Good for you but not the point of the meal. I quit that one too. 

There were a few more efforts. My last bookclub met in fits and starts and we talked for real about the books. But we were mothers with busy lives, jobs, crowded kitchen calendars. We dropped out, reappeared, some not showing up for many meetings at a time. We forgave the lapses, we were all mothers after all, and flu season is a bitch. The e-mail round robins as we tried to organize were pretty lively but when the meetings ended up being three people, one of whom had not yet read the book we realized it was time to let it go.

Now I have discovered a new version: the online book conversation. No hors d’oeuvres, no cleaning your house when it is your turn to host a meeting, no chit chat about the kid on the field trip last week. There is limited space for rambling, a decent length of time to read the book and you can sit in your flannel pajama pants and an old hoodie with a filthy cold while still taking about a book.

There are many virtual bookclubs flourishing out there, but as I am biased, lazy and because Wanda is a fantastic moderator I participate in the bookclub right here at Bookalicious: 

This month we are reading Sing You Home by Jodi Picoult. Thanks to Wanda, I attended an author event in Vancouver (subtext:  a night out, on my own, to hear the author speak. About books!. No nonsense. That it was held in a church added to the divine.)  If you feel inspired to read the book, and want to talk to other grown ups, come on in on March 30th, eavesdrop or participate, it is up to you. We meet on Twitter. During the chat we will use the hashtag #SingYouHome and Wanda recommends following the tweets on TweetChat. There may even be some talk of children but don’t expect me to chime in until the juicy booky parts.