About a year ago, a girlfriend of mine invited me into her book club. I love to read and tend to go through stages of reading the same author until I wear out my interest. It started back in University when I had time to kill between classes; I blew through my roommate’s collection of Mary Higgins Clark novels. Then, there was James Patterson. Yes, I read the Twilight series. I powered through the Kite Runner. I am partial to anything written by Wally Lamb.
The thing about book club is that each person gets to pick a book they would like to read so you get to explore authors you may not have even thought of. Then, we all get together to eat, drink and tell you that we either loved your pick or you suck. It usually starts out civilized where you ask a set of reasonably intelligent questions related to the book and everyone dishes their two cents. Then the conversation inevitably turns to parenting as we seek confirmation that we’re doing it ‘right’. 🙂
For some unknown reason, this group intimidates me. It may be because they were already connected when I came in as the ‘new kid’. To those who know me well, I present as fairly outgoing but in unfamiliar territories I am as timid as a mouse. It’s not their fault. They are a lovely set of women.
Most recently, it was my turn to pick the book and I chose the Life of Pi by Yann Martel. Now for the pressure, I am tasked with hosting book club sometime here in January and (drum roll)…I haven’t read the book!! I did see the movie (which I highly recommend) but that’s not going to cut it when you’re the host.
I have an excuse you’re Honour! Life is pretty crazy right now. Between changing careers, selling the house, raising a teenager and all the other millions of things it’s nothing short of a miracle that I haven’t been picked up in another city sitting on a park bench, dressed in a housecoat, laughing to myself (ok, little over the top but that’s what happens when you make excuses). It could happen, which is why I suggest carrying your ID with you at all times (just in case your family would like to reclaim you).
My Kobo reader tells me I’m at 17% read. It’s electronic, why can’t it just read the book for me and then generate some Coles notes version? I feel like I’m not respecting my book choice. I should be reading it relaxed, in the bathtub with a wineglass in hand. Instead, I am skimming pages, highlighting things that sound profound so when we meet I can drop these into the conversation to make it sound like it resonated with me. I am such a fraud!