Before my first book club meeting, I actually read the book. Not quite sure what to expect from the meeting, I made sure to pick up the book early (Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees) and read it immediately, even considering the discussion questions at the back of the book. Then, not wanting to make a bad showing at the meeting, I also thought about some passages from the novel that I particularly liked, in case such a conversation popped up.
When I got to the meeting, no one was talking about the book. They were drinking wine and discussing just about anything else, from the monorail to how much better the commercials for the new city slogan (What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!) could be. Taking a glass and joining a conversation, I totally forgot about the book. A glass or two later, the book finally came up, and at least half of the attendees had to admit that they had not finished reading it. A few hadn't even started. It didn't seem to matter, though, as those who hadn't read simply continued other conversations while the rest of us devoted a solid 10 minutes to book discussion—until fresh glasses of wine were poured and somehow the book slipped right back out of the conversation.
Soon, we began trying to figure out how to get more people to attend our meeting. One popular suggestion? Not telling potential attendees in advance that the gatherings were, in fact, for a book club. Of course, the next suggestion was to just drop the books from the meetings altogether, but no one could think of a good name for the club without the books. When I left almost four hours later, I'd talked about the book for about 20 minutes, but I was fully caught up on gossip and had downed at least a bottle of wine. I took a moment to reflect on what a great book club this was.
By the second meeting, my downfall was in full swing. I didn't even finish the book (Chuck Palahniuk's Diary) in time for the meeting, and I always finish books. I went to book club ashamed, intentionally arriving 45 minutes late, confident that any book-related discussions would be over. Lo and behold, when I arrived, the book conversation was in full swing, complete with other members' observations about favorite parts and what they liked or didn't like about the writing style. Wine was again flowing freely, but only one other member of the club had been so uncouth as to not finish the book. Luckily, when the two of us losers started our own little non-book-related conversation (which involved creating dating service-type profiles gone horribly wrong for the other book club members) and encouraged the pouring of fresh glasses of wine, the conversation again gracefully moved away from the book. Soon, empty wine bottles began to take over the host's kitchen counter, and the meeting had turned irreversibly toward upcoming movies, concerts and Halloween parties. Another successful book club meeting.
I'm looking forward to the next gathering, and while we have yet to choose a book, I'm sure we won't be lacking in conversation or wine, so it should be another excellent meeting, new book or not. Whatever the gruesome details, I think I'll keep them to myself from here on out. What happens at the book club should stay at the book club.