Internets, I joined a book club.
I’ve always wanted to because I like to read, and I like to discuss what I’ve read. So I figured a book club would be a pretty good idea.
I think I had some pre-conceived notions of what it would be, but already I’ve been proven wrong, and I haven’t even been to one of the meetings yet.
I think I was just expecting all women to enjoy the same types of books that I enjoy. Like Nicholas Sparks, or Jody Piccoult (I’ve never actually read anything of hers, but they’re pretty similar in style), Nora Roberts. Like chick-flicks on paper. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll venture out every now and then and read something by James Patterson or Joyce Carol Oates, or what I’m reading right now. (which is taking me a century to read for some reason) But I like easy-reads. I like being able to fly through a book in an afternoon.
But this month’s book threw me for a loop.
That’s no chick-flick on paper yo. That’s a serious book. And I’m reading a sort of serious book right now. I never do that. Read two serious books in a row, I mean. Well, except for James Patterson, because his books just flow and you can’t put them down. But on the whole, I don’t do two serious books in a row.
So, we’ll see how I do with this thing. I’m looking forward to broadening my literary horizons.