Why I am a Book Club Dropout
Illustration for a sarcastic article published by More Magazine († 2016). Please feel free to read the article below.
I recently joined an
exclusive book club. As in, only
one member. It’s not as if I didn’t
try other groups. My first foray
was with co-workers who met
every two weeks at lunchtime.
The discussions consisted of everyone
reading aloud her favorite
lines while stopping to check
emails. Plus, I never had time to
finish a book before I was told to
start the next. The Paris Wife?
Never got past the courtship. 3
Cups of Tea? Only got through
two. Reading became homework.
When it was my turn, I picked
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“I loved the kiss at the end,”
Margo said. “What kiss?” we
all asked.
That’s when we realized
Margo had simply rented the
(altered ending) movie. No time
management problems for her!
Next, my neighbor Rhonda invited
me to her book club. The
group chose the entire year’s list
in January. I joined in February.
We met the third Tuesday of every
month. Except when Rhonda
had theater tickets. Then we’d
reschedule. “I like everything
Oprah likes,” Rhonda told me.
Good news for Stedman. “But
why are her recommendations
always depressing?” Gina asked.
“I want to kill myself after each
one.”
“Yeah. That Pilot’s Wife got
screwed,” Janine said.
“A similar thing happened to
my third cousin,” Bonnie told us,
followed by a lively debate about
Bonnie’s cousin, Gina’s ex-husband
and Suzi’s job at JetBlue.
I wasn’t in a book club. I was in
women’s talk therapy. I lasted
through November, mainly due
to Rhonda’s theme-related refreshments
(The Help—black
and white cookies…Steve Jobs—
apples and chips….).
My new book club meets
whenever I want. I’m usually
in pajamas. Under the covers.
I get to pick the book. I get to
pick the refreshments. And if the discussion’s not interesting, I just shut off the light
and go to sleep.
← The initial sketch