I was never much of a book club person. While I love reading, one of its greatest pleasures is the way I can immerse myself in the world of a good book, in solitude. Alone. Without any static from the world beyond the story. Book clubs would mean assigned reading, the opinions of others shaping my reading experience, having to socialize, the opposite of solitude. I briefly joined a book club of some work colleagues when I was teaching in rural Illinois, and it was fun, but most of our time was spent gossiping about, well, work. The books were rather secondary, or even tertiary.
But I am also a writer, and while reading and writing generally happen in solitude, promoting your writing doesn’t. The first book club I attended as a writer was in Kalamazoo, Mich., where I was invited to a cheery brunch with a local book club while I was on tour for my debut novel, “An Untamed State.”The invitation came from my cousin’s mother-in-law, a vivacious, talkative Michigander who was absolutely thrilled that I was swinging through Kalamazoo. As you might imagine, Kalamazoo is a bit afield from typical book-tour routes, so when writers come through, readers take note. And as a Midwesterner myself, one thing I know for sure is that readers are everywhere. Between that and the family connection, spending an hour or two with this book club was an easy yes.
I had no idea what to expect. My general understanding of book clubs had, to that point, been cursory. Book clubs are often treated as something of a cultural punch line, because they are largely the domain of women and we have a penchant for dismissing or diminishing anything women do. In film and television, book clubs are portrayed as a way for women to briefly free themselves from the shackles of domestic responsibility, sticky children, feckless husbands. They gather with friends and acquaintances, indulge in a nice bottle of wine and well-curated snacks, gossip a bit and maybe, just maybe, talk about the book selection of the month. Punch line or not, if that was what was in store for me, I had a feeling I would love joining a book club.
When I approached the Garden Gate Cafe, where the brunch would be held, there was a whiteboard welcoming me, adorned with drawings of pink flowers. I swooned. Inside the cafe, the tables were covered in brightly colored polyurethane tablecloths, also covered with flowers. It was all very festive.
The club meeting itself was lovely. The women had all read my book and eagerly peppered me with questions. They seemed to enjoy being able to talk with an author, and I enjoyed being able to explain my creative choices, what it felt like to have a real live book out in the world, available at bookstores everywhere (ish). Some of their questions were about possible futures for “The Untamed State” protagonist, Mireille. They wanted to know what parts of the story I left out or had to cut during the revision process. They wanted to know how I came up with the plot and how, if at all, it mirrored reality. I answered their questions as best I could, and we talked about other things too — my writing process, their own creative works, other books they had already or were soon to read.
This was early in my career, so I was driving from one tour stop to the next, mostly back and forth across the Midwest. This particular swing had taken me from Detroit to Kalamazoo and eventually on to Chicago. The book club members reached out to ensure I was driving because, they said, it would determine the composition of their gift. Now, I love gifts, so I was intrigued, but nothing could have prepared me for the enormous basket of Michigan-themed gifts that awaited me.
There was local beer, cupcakes, a wooden cutting board in the shape of the state, jams and jelly, greeting cards, popcorn, local coffee, a piece of art, an oven mitt emblazoned with a map of the state, a dish towel with the names of all the cities in Michigan from top to bottom, including Houghton, where I earned my doctoral degree. It was so charming and unexpected and unnecessary but welcome. As I drove off, I smiled as I watched the women, waving at me in the rearview mirror. And for the first time, I had a real understanding of what a book club can do — bringing readers together to make a solitary endeavor a communal one.
That was the beginning of a lot of book club visits, some in person, many virtual first via Skype and then, during and after the pandemic, via Zoom. Some were just small groups of friends in small towns while others were international book clubs with members in dozens of cities. It was eye-opening to realize just how many women, mostly, belong to book clubs. We always hear the grim stories about the dire state of publishing, how people just don’t read, but that isn’t the whole story. Lots of people do read, and they are passionate about books. They are well organized and have excellent taste in fancy crackers, and they love to talk with writers so much that their enthusiasm can be a little overwhelming and a lot flattering.
Four years after that first book club event, I was in London, my first time. It was gray and damp as London sometimes is. I did some tourist things. There was an amazing Jenny Holzer exhibit at the Tate Modern. I walked around Notting Hill looking for the travel bookshop, which I found even though I know it wasn’t really the bookshop from the movie. I did an event at the Southbank Centre, where I was in conversation with Liv Little, a U.K. magazine editor, about my memoir “Hunger.” I had a lengthy book signing, and by the end of it all I had used up what little extroversion I had and needed to replenish those reserves. But.
I had made a commitment to meet with the Black Girls Book Club, a book club composed of Black women. I did not want to disappoint, so two days later I joined the club for dinner at a local restaurant. It ended up being one of the most enjoyable nights of my writing life. For one, these were some of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my life. They had impeccable style. They held forth on any number of topics with ease and grace. It did not hurt that they loved my work and asked interesting questions. I learned a bit about the Black British experience and met talented writers among the group. At the end, there were adorable little gift bags and flowers. I felt seen and appreciated. Truly, it was a gift. It always is when I meet with book clubs.
Now, I also host a book club of my own, the Audacious Book Club— a sprawling affair I run through my newsletter. The hardest part is choosing only one book a month when so many books are being published that deserve attention. With the help of an amazing team — Meg and Kaitlyn — we have online discussions, and toward the end of the month, we meet with the author for a live conversation via Zoom. One time, we read a cookbook, “Start Here”by Sohla El-Waylly, and the author and I cooked together in my kitchen. During the live conversation, some of the attendees cooked along with us. It was so fun and somehow reassuring to look at people, in their kitchens, following along, offering advice, asking questions, having this one hour out of our busy lives, where we had this shared experience.
Each month, as my book club gathers, I am reminded that people find real joy in reading and talking about great books. They form clubs based on geography or cultural affinity. They read by genre or the latest releases or the classics or audiobooks. They share curiosity and create community. They love complaining about the characters they hate and swooning over the characters they adore. They love comparing notes about confusing passages or unexpected plot twists. All of these book club people, from around the world, read together and remind us that even the things we do in pleasurable solitude can help us connect to one another in the most interesting ways.
Gayis an internationally acclaimed author, professor and social commentator whose work explores the intersections of race, gender and pop culture. She is the author of “Bad Feminist,” “Hunger” and “Opinions: A Decade of Arguments, Criticism, and Minding Other People’s Business,” among other works, and the founder of the Audacious Book Club.
The post Book club skeptic? So was Roxane Gay. Here’s what converted her appeared first on Los Angeles Times.
