My neighborhood has its own Facebook group, which is super handy when you’re looking for a sitter or recommendations for a plumber. Recently someone posted this question: Who’s up for a neighborhood book club?
Me me me! I gave it a big neighborly thumbs up.
Then came the next question: What would you like to read?
Here’s my novelist anxiety: internal pressure to suggest Very Important Books. Faust. Anna Karenina. Wuthering Heights. You are what you eat, and you are what you read. Will eyebrows raise if I admit I’d rather read The Girl on the Train?
And then there’s the book club itself. What if I miss allegories or metaphors? I surely can’t say something like, “I liked that chapter because it was good.” After two glasses of wine, anything goes. It’s possible I might use the word “goodly.” Who knows?
Honestly, most of my neighbors probably don’t even know I write books. There’s no sign in the yard. I haven’t handed out Graham Cracker Plot bookmarks. I’m not that neighbor who hangs out in my yard, chatting with the dog-walkers. I like my air-con.
So, the book club. I’ll just try to enjoy it.
By the way, here’s my wish list of summer reads (adult-style). Notice I’m putting it here, on my blog, and not on the book club page. Baby steps.
The Girl on the Train
Orphan Train
The Goldfinch
We Were Liars
Wild
The most recent The Best American Nonrequired Reading
shelley tougas 