As if I didn’t have enough to do with my time, I accepted an invitation to join a book club with some other local women I know. I’m actually pretty happy about it, but at the same time, uh… That’s one less evening a month I’ll have to devote to writing.
But it’ll be good for me– an opportunity to stretch myself to reading books I might not otherwise have picked up.
A part of me is also thinking, this might be a way for me to present my finished manuscripts to a small group of early readers, but I don’t want any of them to think that was my primary motivation for joining in the first place.
What a conundrum…
The only other “book club” I’ve ever been a part of was in eighth grade, when I talked my English teacher into sponsoring one. The club consisted mostly of me and other friends who loved to read, but when it came to reading what was actually assigned to us, we kind of… didn’t do so well. The Harry Potter books had just started coming out– we had all read the first two books and were eagerly awaiting the release of The Prisoner of Azkaban (I actually didn’t remember that detail; I had to look up the books’ release dates), and most of our club discussions revolved more around our immersion in the Wizarding World than it did about The Witch of Blackbird Pond, or any of the other books we had chosen to read (decades later, I can only remember a single title of however many books we pretended to be interested in).
I am determined that this time around I will be far more disciplined than I was back then.
Just as soon as I get around to ordering the first book…