At one book club I belonged to, we kinda sorta got to the actual book, but the discussion inevitably veered off in some other direction and we were often there for hours. I’d sometimes wonder why I’d bothered to read the darn book at all. Still, the eats were fabulous; we’d gather cosily around a variety of cheeses, cookies, the occasional cake, noshing and chatting.
The next book club had no social aspects whatsoever. I wonder if the original organizer had previously been a rap-your-knuckles kind of teacher. We gathered for exactly an hour and a half, the first hour involved questions followed by discussion, then one-half hour of refreshments laid out in military precision on someone’s dining table, after which everyone rose at the same time as though a bell had gone off.
The other day I was strolling around the complex here when an acquaintance pulled up in her car and offered a book from the batch she’d acquired at the public library; she was starting a book club. I thought what the heck, why not. It was a book I was planning to read anyway: Emily Oliphant is Perfectly Fine. I took it and am enjoying it so far.
The next hurdle is where/how do we meet. I have no intention of sitting in someone’s living room in these germy times. Hopefully we’ll gather outside somewhere.
But for now I at least have a good book to read. And who knows – maybe this will be the book club that’s juuuust right.