A few years ago I got talking to a woman at a wedding, someone that I recognised from the village I live in but had never spoken to before. It was late in the evening, tucked away in a shadowy corner of a converted barn and I'd lost count of how many drinks I'd had. The conversation turned to social events in the village - I knew this lady to be quite involved with the community, the type to appear on the village Facebook on an almost daily basis and be a member of various committees. She mentioned that she runs a book group once a month for local women.
'Oh, I don't think I'd fancy a book group,' I said, wine lubricating my brutal honesty gears. 'I absolutely love reading, so I don't really need ideas or inspiration, to be honest.'
'Well, I'm sorry to say, we haven't room for any new members.'
'That's fine,' I said, not sure if she'd heard me right. 'What I mean is, that's great there's a book group, but I was just saying how I feel about them. Not for me.' I smiled and looked to change the subject.
'Well, we're a lovely bunch. We have a rule where everyone has to bring two bottles of wine and the host has to lay on some nibbles. But you wouldn't be able to join, not at the moment.'
Up until now, my throwaway comment about my ambivalence to book groups had been just that - throwaway. But now, since she wasn't letting it drop, let alone listen to what I was saying, I started to get a bit hacked off. I wasn't sure where she was hearing that I wanted to join. Maybe she thought I was running some kind of reverse psychology hoodwink where she'd eventually relent and invite me over for Pringles and Chardonnay.
'But I'll let you know if a space frees up, eh?' she said, tipping me a wink.
Dizzy with my intake of wine and condescension, I made my excuses.
This is my problem with book groups, and apologies in advance to anyone who attends and enjoys one. God knows, it's a great excuse for people to get together and make and continue friendships. But that's the issue - book groups are merely code for 'wine and nibbles' group. Let's call a spade a spade.
I'm by no means a book snob, wanting another type of book group to exist, where everyone worthily reels off an essay about the merits and criticisms of each text. Where women sit like bookish nuns, slavishly picking apart the nuances of last month's read. Take a look at my earlier posts, my book tastes are mainstream to say the least. But, the last thing I want to do is go to the trouble of dismantling good, bad and ugly novels under the pretence of being a literary connoisseur, while everyone is secretly eyeing the buffet and wondering when Sue is going to open the next bottle of wine.
This is before I even start on the clique element to these groups. The above conversation was not much different to middle-aged Mean Girls - 'She doesn't even go here.' It's not what you read but who you know. Imagine running some kind of 'waiting list' process to allow fellow book-lovers to step over your hallowed threshold? This probably sounds like a bad case of sour grapes, but I don't speak for myself here. I just feel sorry for anyone who did want to join their book group. I'm imagining what kind of initiation rites the poor sod will have to go through - downing a whole bottle of Pinot Grigio in one, while burning a ceremonial copy of The Da Vinci Code. Maybe get a book group prison-style tattoo that means you can't roam freely in certain neighbourhoods after dark lest a rival book group gets wind of you. The mind boggles.
I can see the appeal to those wanting to be forced to read a book each month. Maybe if you're not a keen reader but want to broaden your horizons by being obliged to read the agreed text before the month is out. I can even understand the benefit of reading other people's book suggestions, being exposed to genres and writers that you hadn't considered reading before. But, to turn up at the monthly meeting only for the book to be hastily forgotten in favour of passing the bowl of peanuts seems a bit pointless to me.
The idea of eschewing a book that I've been gagging to read, perhaps a new release from a favourite author or even an old comfort read that's crying out to me, in deference to some needlessly poncey book that the picker has chosen to show off how very well-read they are, makes me want to sigh until I pass out. I have enough to do, with a job, two kids, three pets and a never-ending to-do list, without adding a mandatory five-hundred page snoozefest to the pile. The thought of foregoing the joy of delving into a favourite book because I need to wade through Harriet's self-indulgent vanity choice leaves me very cold indeed.
No, as I said to my bookish friend at the wedding, it's not for me. I'll leave those guys to suffer next month's literary mountain-climb. Besides, I have plenty wine at home, and it means I get to enjoy my greatest pleasure and a full packet of Tyrells Salt and Vinegar all to myself.
LJ
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