Book Club - Mind Food or Soul Food?

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



11 things I have learned about life

       I turned 50 at the beginning of this year. Half a century. That may be young for a country or a tree, but it sounds pretty old when you apply it to yourself. I mean, I still feel so young - sometimes even immature. I can't be fifty! I still regularly say and do stupid things, I have not yet attained a perfectly svelte figure and I have not conquered    the world as I had planned to do. Yet, here I am, feeling the odd creak in my body when I wake up in the mornings; having to wear reading classes and regularly forgetting where I put my keys. What happened?

       I figured there had to be some compensation for not being able to call myself young anymore and so I pondered this for a while. What advantage has my 50th birthday given me that I did not have when I was, say, 20? What have I learned in life so far?

 What I came up with, is by no means original. I cannot even claim that it is exceptionally wise. But what follows are 11 things I know now, which would have made my life a lot easier if I had known (or internalized) and applied them twenty or thirty years ago. 

   

      1. If you desperately try to control potentially disastrous situations, you may end up making things worse. Take a deep breath, let go and relax. Things usually work out on their own.

      2. People care about how you make them feel. They may be impressed or amused by you,    but what  ultimately determines whether they like you or not; is how they feel about themselves when they are with you.

  

     3.  Family is key in life. Friends are important; possessions may enhance your life, but only family will love you in your most unlovable moments   

     

      4. No one is 100% reliable or trustworthy. Not even you. Be careful to whom you entrust your weaknesses and your deepest secrets and who you burden with your highest expectations. The latter is best reserved for God.

      5. If you are too cautious with your trust, you may become suspicious, cynical and rather lonely. Find a balance that sits well with you.

.     6. God is unfathomable. You will make yourself sick or mad trying to determine which version  of Him, presented here on earth; is the right one. Just accept that He is and walk with Him by the light that you have.

  

     7.Your children are not your possessions (to paraphrase Kahlil Gibran). They are independent people with their own minds, dreams and destinies. It is your privilege to guide them on their paths, but not your right to choose the path.

      8.You never, ever fully appreciate anything until it is gone. (This is a cliché because it is true.)The same goes for people. And regret is painful and useless. Try to remember this when you find yourself taking things or people for granted.

     9. It does not matter how much money you have; it will never be enough. Not if you try to use it to fill the holes in your self-esteem. Fabulously wealthy people regularly commit suicide or destroy themselves with the stupid things they do when they realize this. Don’t think you will be the exception. You won’t. (Although I still suspect I might be...)  So – stop comparing yourself to others and appreciate what you have.

   

     10. As it says in the Bible, the power of both life and death is in your tongue. Consider which of the two your  words will sow in the life of another. Think ten times before you speak, count to 100 if you must, but be careful. Children are fragile, and so are adults – even grown men.

      11. Be kind to yourself. That way it will be easier to be kind to the people you care about. And anyway, life is hard enough without piling pressure on yourself.

       So, there you have it: what stands out for me as truths to live by. Being fifty is cool, after all...

    

      What about you? What has life taught you that you wish you knew years ago?

    Until my next sleepless ramble -

                                                             Christine

Why I am not a famous writer

I have always wanted to be a writer. Even in primary school I used to dream about the highly acclaimed novels that would one day flow from my pen. School teachers at both primary and high school, as they bade me farewell, extracted from me promises to send them signed copies of my first published work. (Fortunately they are all dead now and I don’t have to face any of them with the shame of my unfulfilled potential).

I was even going to be the editor of a large women’s magazine. How this was to be achieved, I never stopped to think. A career plan was not something that featured highly in our high school guidance classes: We were too busy learning to recognise the incipient signs of communism in everyday life.

So, I changed courses at university and thought that writing tortured poetry about my broken heart after each failed relationship qualified me as a promising writer. I obtained my degree, met the man of my dreams, got married and got a job (no writing involved, creative or otherwise). Still, I was young and there was still plenty of time for me to fulfill my dreams. One day I was going to write.

Fast forward to 20 years later and I just could not find the time or the opportunity to write even one short story or article for a magazine. Life kept happening and stopping me from being all I was sure I still could be. Until I recognized that I was finding excuses not to do the one thing that I thought I was born to do- write. So I sat down in front of first; a piece of paper and later my computer, but nothing would ever come to mind. I could not think of anything to write about. There was no story inside of me after all. Or if there was, it was hiding and I would have to painstakingly pry it out over a long time. Writing was going to be HARD WORK!

Write, they say. Just start writing and it will flow. What about, though? Give me a subject & I will have a go. Give me a deadline and I might be galvanized into action. Better yet, give me the incentive of definite monetary reward and I am sure I could churn something out. But just write? That seems like unnecessary hard work to me; like chopping wood to pass the time.

They also say true writers write because they cannot not write. Well, in that case there’s no hope for me. I want to write so that I can feel a sense of accomplishment, to be recognized for what I write (even if only by a few people) and to be paid money for my writing. But I want to finish it before teatime so I can relax with a cup of tea and half a packet of chocolate biscuits. There has never been a time when I felt that I absolutely have to write or I will perish with unexpressed creativity.

I love doing nothing. I wish there was a career path in doing nothing. I would be a great success. (Yes, I have tried management, but even then they expect you to turn up every day).

Whenever I have a task to complete, I try and finish it as quickly as possible to get it out of the way, so as to contemplate the possibility of an hour or so of doing nothing. This idleness can take the form of anything from napping on the couch in front of the TV or doing Sudoku on the computer. Or thinking - about all the things I am still going to accomplish, one day when I find something I enjoy more than doing nothing.

I am not completely useless, you understand. I hold down a fairly responsible part time job, have raised two children without too much help from nannies and relatives and I run a reasonably organised household. I go to gym and I am somewhat involved in my community. I even belong to that time-honoured institution of quasi-intellectual, wine-and gossip- loving women everywhere: the Book Club.

Yet, I cannot find anything that compares with the lift that takes place in my insides when I look forward to an evening or part of an afternoon with no chores, no responsibilities and no obligations; where I can flop down on the couch and stare vacuously at the television, or read a book that will not necessarily improve my mind in any way.

When faced with the choice between pottering in my garden –and I do love a nice garden - or doing absolutely nothing, the latter will always win. Choosing between filing a tax return or taking a long, soaking bath requires practically no thought at all.

As you can imagine, this situation leads to a considerable amount of inner conflict. I feel I should do more, be more, achieve more, but I lack the incentive and the drive. Let me be honest about this: I am lazy. And I am ashamed of this fact. I always have been and I have tried to hide my noontime naps, excessive Sudoku-playing and other unworthy and unproductive pastimes from friends and family.

Lately, however, I have been wondering whether I am being too hard on myself. We have advanced tremendously over the years in our understanding of human beings; both psychologically and biologically. For example, we now know that the line between male and female is not as clear cut as we always thought. There are homosexual people, transgender people, men trapped in women’s bodies and vice versa. This knowledge has lead to greater understanding of human beings, which is a very good thing.

I believe, however, that I have made a discovery of my own; one that will bring reassurance to many others like me. It will free us from the tyranny of guilt and regret and allow us to embrace our true nature:
         I am a sloth, trapped in a human's body.

                                    

How do you get motivated to pursue your dreams? Or have you already fulfilled them?

Lets Talk....

I would love to hear your opinion..

                                             

                        Until the next sleepless night,                                               

                                           
                           Christine