As readers of my first blog will know (yes, Sis, I mean you), I belong to a book club. This is not the book club in its purest form, the way it was originally intended by lovers of literature worldwide.
We do not all buy the latest highly acclaimed literary work and read it before the monthly meeting; to have an in-depth discussion of its merits, symbolism and character development - although this is what I was hoping for when I first contemplated joining a Book Club. (Oh, how utterly pretentious that now sounds! I guess my standards have dropped considerably over the years…)
At my book club, the members spend the evening drinking copious amounts of wine, griping (or boasting, as the case may be) about husbands and children, gossiping, talking about their next holidays and complaining about their weight. You know; girl stuff. As the evening progresses, the conversation usually develops (degenerates?) into risqué jokes and laments about some members’ non-existent or unexciting sex lives or others’ latest bedroom adventures, while the more reserved among us sit with slightly shocked expressions on their faces, inwardly congratulating themselves that they have not sunk so low as to discuss such intimate matters in public – but nevertheless hanging on to every word of these daring revelations in order to repeat it later to their equally shocked (or titillated) husbands.
Sound confusing? Let me explain.
Due to the high cost of books in my country, many book clubs are simply groups of six to twelve women who take turns meeting in each others’ homes; each contributing a fixed monthly amount to a “book kitty”. When it’s your turn to host Book Club, you get to go buy books of your own choice with the money in the kitty. In principle this sounds like a great idea, as this allows everyone in the book club access to the latest books without having to buy them all.
The problem lies with the “your own choice”- bit. When it comes to the selection of book titles, we are sadly not all on the same page, so to speak. Please understand, I’m not a book snob (well, not much, anymore) and I like a good thriller or a travel book as much as a well crafted novel about, say, life and love in the English Countryside/ South of France/whatever your personal idyll may be.
However, some readers in our little group have a very limited and specific taste in reading matter from which they never vary. Such is their devotion that they will shun all the latest books on offer in the book stores if these do not include works by their favourite authors (I use the term loosely) and head for the second hand book shops in search for some as yet unread titles by the writers of their choice. And it’s not the stuff that Nobel Literature prizes are made of…
These women have never graduated from the bodice rippers we used to devour in high school. They are still enthralled by girls with heaving bosoms who unleash dark and uncontrollable passions in strong, silent men with firm jaws and “throbbing members”. Nothing wrong with that – if that is how you get your thrills. I have to confess to a partiality for celebrity gossip magazines, myself.
What intrigues me, though, is that the other genre of choice of these ladies is graphically violent murder mysteries. And the violence in these novels is usually directed at women. And yes, in case you were wondering, these are the same women I mentioned above, who sit tight-lipped with disapproval when the conversation turns to sex and silliness.
Now I ask you, dear reader, what does this mean? What does their choice of reading matter say about these ladies? Are they repressed? Are they hypocritical? Or is it merely different strokes for different folks? (No, you dirty-minded reader, no pun intended!) What it means for me and a few of my fellow book club members, anyhow, is that it is slim pickings when it’s Suzie Sex-dream’s or Iris Ice-pick’s turn to buy books.
Perhaps in your mind there are now two questions:
1. How did a disparate group like ours form a book club together?
2. Why do I stick with my book club if it does not fulfill my reading expectations?
The answer to question one is an overdeveloped sense of duty followed by stealthy infiltration. You know; you and the girlfriends come up with a brilliant plan for this fantastic new group of “discerning” (tongue firmly in cheek here) readers to form a book club. You name all the people you believe will be suitable members (a bit like the old exclusive sports or country club thing going on) and then Cathy Conscience says:” But I can’t leave out my old friend Suzie Sex-dream. She’ll be so hurt… and besides, she will in time learn to read more widely- our type of books; I’m sure.”
Wrong! Suzie joins; six months later Literary Linda moves to another town and there is an opening in the membership. And Suzie says: “My friend Iris Ice-pick would love to join our book club. I invited her to come next month…” When Humorous Hannah leaves a few months later due to work pressure, Suzie and Iris have their friend Sally Sour-face fill the gap quicker than you can say Danielle Steel.
So, why don’t my like-minded book club friends and I start our own club, where we can have our naughty conversations without feeling judged and buy books that all or most of us will enjoy reading?
Because, dear reader, despite their quirks, I have grown quite fond of my book club girls – all of them! When Suzie Sex-dream’s husband went off to find himself during a mid-life crisis, we cried with her. When he remorsefully returned some time later, we laughed with her. When Sally Sour face was the victim of a mugging, we commiserated and when Cathy Conscience lost her job, we were there for her. We are happy for Ambitious Annie when she gets a promotion and we celebrate with Helicopter Hayley when her children make the school swim team. We share our ups and downs. And, despite our differences, we care about each other.
My group is more than a book club. It’s a support group.
Until the next w(b)itching hour -
Christine
Fun read... I wish I had a book club like that...
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