In an attempt to become “more social,” which, at my stage might be futile, I joined a book club. Eight women get together at one another’s houses, supplying food–and drink.
The first thing I noticed is the divergent taste in books. The first book felt like getting an assignment in school, it was long, dense, and in a dialect (English to be sure, but hard to read since the book was written in 1920). I put it off until the last minute, then read it in one week, trudging through it, and even consulting Amazon reviews to figure out what it was about.
Second book was an historical mystery–more up my alley.
I hosted one and worried about my book choice because I hadn’t read it ahead of time before my recommendation. It was okay–a lighthearted female spoof.
I think my foray into book clubs might be a “starter drug” into the groups I’m most afraid of joining; writing critique groups.
I’ll keep going and reading.
Latest book West With Giraffes