Nope. It's always some variation on: "I have my book club meeting tomorrow night and I still have 1004 more pages to read of NAME OF BOOK GOES HERE. And I can't believe this is the book they chose."
Don't get me wrong. I love books so much that when an acquaintance recently said she wanted to line the entrance of her row house with bookshelves, I thought, I wonder if my hallway is wide enough to do that, too? And, Can I rearrange my radiator to make space? We used to have book wallpaper in our old house, but can you imagine how welcoming it would be to be flanked by real books as you walked into your house? It would be a lot better than being pawed at by a dog standing on her hind legs, which is what happens where I live. I've long dreamed of building bookshelves in my dining room so that I'd be surrounded by good friends on all sides. It would be like repairing to the library after dinner for brandy, cigars, and conversation, only you wouldn't have to leave the table.
Having said all of that, I feel like the bad mother--you know, the woman who wrote an essay in the New York Times about loving her husband (who turns out to be the novelist Michael Chabon) more than her kids. But here's the thing: I don't ever want to be in a book club.
For me, the joy of books comes from the freedom to choose, both what--and when-- to read. Sure it's fun to talk about books, such as recently, when it seemed like everyone I know happened to be reading The Middle Place. And I was touched when my friend Lisel brought me her copy of The Girl I Left Behind because she had read it and thought I would like it, too. (She was right.) But that's different than having to slog through The Moviegoer because someone in your book club is trying to assauge her guilt over never having read it in college. Or willing yourself to stay awake as you inch your way along in some tome about geopolitics when you'd really rather be curled up with a good mystery. The only period in my life that I didn't love reading was in grades 6 to 12, because there was never a time--summers included--that I was without an assignment. Next came the agony of having to analyze the book in class. What is a book club except English Lit. without the tests? On the rare occasions when I leave Ralph and the kids at home and get together with friends, possibly the last thing I want to discuss is the plot of a 19th century novel.
The reason this is on my mind is that the other day, my sister's friend Pat came up with a brilliant idea: a magazine club. Members would read an agreed-upon piece like the Gisele cover story in Vanity Fair or Orangette's piece on salmon in Bon Appetit, or, hell, the Organizer Doctor's solutions for arranging what's under the sink in Red Book, sift through it, and still leave plenty of time for free-ranging conversation.
Think about it. After a lively evening with friends, you could go home, climb into bed, and read. The book of your choice. Without the guilt.
Anyone want to join with me to start Magazines Only?
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