I really really love to read the books, and I'm surrounded by peeps who love to read the books too.
My mom and my sisters and my friends and my cousins and my acquaintances share book titles back and forth, to and fro, hither and yon, and have the equivalent of a secret handshake when we greet eachother: instead of the old-fashioned-low-five, we ask, "What are you reading?"
Unfortunately for Mom -- and for us -- none of her daughters are in the group.
Sigh, I know. I can't figure out why we all live so far away from eachother either.
My oldest sister was in a book group for a long time, too. I tried it once, but it was a sober book group, and boring as dirt. It's not just my propensities, people: wine helps conversation flow. The conversation? It did not flow.
Plus, talking books can be like talking politics or religion, I've found. When one feels strongly about a book, one simply cannot believe some numbskull would be so dense and so misinformed and so unenlightened, that she or he could possibly have the audacity to feel differently than one does.
My two co-bloggers and I had ourselves a casual book club during the years Mistah and I were on the road and spent months at a time in San Diego. And no, it was not just an excuse to eat sushi and drink beer. Jacquie, Beth and I talked books. Now that's a book club I can get behind.
Mistah says he always knows when I'm reading a book I really love. Because when I'm reading a book I really love, I am focused and still and absorbed and I never look up.
When Mistah and I were on the road we read and read and read and read. When people ask us how we possibly could have put up with eachother in a tiny VW camper for 7½ years, we always answer "we read." One couldn't get away from the other bastid physically, but mentally? Oh yes.
I agree: Best. Sleepovers. Ever.
That's right. Cool kid then, cool kid now.