Tales of a Book Club Dropout

By Aimee Cirucci

Since 1994, the number of book clubs in America has doubled. And we all know that much of this growth has been fueled by Oprah Winfrey, who started her book club in 1996. Oprah's book club segments have regularly drawn more than 13 million viewers.

I admit it: I've watched these segments myself.

In fact, I'd seem the ideal addition to the popular women's book club movement spawned by Oprah. I love books. For a 28-year-old woman, I suppose I have an uncanny addiction to the library. I'm an avid reader and, more important, writer, and (unlike many of my more solitary counterparts) enjoy any opportunity to socialize.

I praised the increased popularity of book clubs, the all-important focus on literacy, and introduction of authors to a wide audience and fantasized of not only participating in a book club but of visiting them one day as a published (best-selling, of course) author. But alas, it was not to be. I am here to confess that I am a book club dropout. There must be legions of us lurking quietly in the shadows drowned out by those louder, bolder, more enthusiastic women armed with the knowledge that they are doing as Oprah does.

My foray into the book clubdom held all of the appeal of a Tupperware party and none of the snazzy pop-top containers. This should have been perfect for me. I was a near-rabid sorority girl and count participation in the Junior League and a monthly supper club among my social successes. But my book club aspirations disappeared faster than Oprah regained the weight.

Invited to join a newly formed club by longtime female friends, I rushed out to buy the first book. I was determined to provide deep literary analysis with a smattering of amusing insights. The trouble started almost immediately. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant concurrently bored, annoyed, and confused me. I am what I like to call a thorough (i.e., slow) reader. And this "thoroughness" actually intensifies when I do not find a book engaging.

Well, as the book club meeting date approached, panic set in. I trudged and plodded through The Red Tent, dragging it to work and to bed. It almost always induced narcolepsy-- in both places.

I began to resent the book-- the arcane character names, the convoluted plot, the fact that this best-seller glared at me from oversized posters in bookstore windows. Very, very quickly the club became more important than the book. I regressed like a child hording Cliffs Notes and went online to download everything I could about The Red Tent, literally memorizing the plot. In what can only be called an act of infancy, I even banged up the book so that it looked sufficiently worn and read.

The day of the club meeting, I popped on my glasses, prepared a veggie tray, swore I'd read the next book, and swung into action.

I can't tell you how many of the six ladies who gathered that evening actually finished The Red Tent. But I can tell you that the conversation was stilted at best. In truth, most women were more interested in the brie than the book. The scene was surprisingly awkward for a group that had no problem discussing men, money, and menstrual cycles on a near daily basis.

Maybe we needed more wine?

Maybe-- but I didn't wait around to find out. After gracefully bowing out citing my busy workweek, I rushed home to binge on a book of my own choosing.

Being in a book club felt like trying to jog with a group of people, a near impossible task for this runner. Once the pace is set, rather than enjoying the jog everyone is preoccupied with trying to catch up or slow down so that we can all do it together.

I've discovered that my books, like my jogs, are better enjoyed alone. Maybe I am more like those solitary writers than I thought. I am not envious of book club ladies. These are probably the same women who swear they enjoy doing "The Race for the Cure" with forty coworkers. And there's nothing wrong with that. I'd just implore them to give book club delinquency a chance every now and then. There is a distinct joy that comes from having your own secret literary adventure.

Since that first meeting three years ago, I've eschewed book clubs and savored reading what I want when I want. Sometimes I don't finish; sometimes I do. Sometimes I read two or three books at once. Sometimes I watch the movie first.

But no matter how I go about it I usually wind up enjoying it alone.

And I never have to make a veggie tray to do it.

Aimee Cirucci works, writes and reads in the Washington, D.C. metro area. As soon as she pens a best-seller she swears she'll give book clubs another try. Until then you can find her reading (alone!) in her local library or e-mail her at acirucci@gmail.com.

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