Thursday – The Readers
Jan. 13th, 2011 03:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
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Book Club last week was a lot of fun, even if the book we read wasn’t much fun at all. The fact that the book was almost universally hated by the five of us who showed up made it fun to sit around in a circle and talk about just why we hated it so much. Only one member was sympathetic toward it. She didn’t consider it great, finally admitted that it made her sentimental for her dear departed grandma, who used to like such books.
The club has had male members who have come and gone, but in recent months it has become all female. The women gathered in the bookstore last week in age covered each decade of life starting with a 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. The 20-something was new to the group. JerryAnn represented the 30-somethings. I was the lone 40-something (on the low end of that decade, thank you very much). The 50-something was also new. The 60-something was Judy, the former go-go dancer and mother-in-law of the store’s proprietress, Kristen. Kristen herself was home with her three sick children, who had in turn made her not feel so well by passing along their stomach flu to her.
The book was a murder mystery. Sort of. It was based around a murder, but there was no mystery to it because you could tell who the fiend was from the moment she walked onto the page. The red herring in the book was so obviously a red herring (a good murder mystery would have had two or three red herrings) that, except to the local police in the story, that you knew she was beyond suspicion from the moment she spoke her first line.
“I hated it,” said the 20-something. “I couldn’t even finish it.”
“I haven’t finished it, but I will,” I said, “I just want to be proven right about everything I’ve already figured out.”
“There wasn’t much to it,” the 50-something said, “I didn’t care for it.”
“I didn’t mind it,” said JerryAnn. This took Judy and me by surprise, since JerryAnn is the Book Club’s version of Mikey: she hates everything.
“How could you not mind it?” I asked, “It was crap! The writing is simplistic, the plot is transparent, the dialog reads like a bad TV scrip, and it’s complete fluff.”
“I know it’s crap, and it’s fluff, but it doesn’t pretend to be anything else. It’s honest about what it is,” JerryAnn said with a shrug. I stared at her, worried that aliens had kidnapped JerryAnn and that I was talking to a real, live, actual Pod Person. “Look, I don’t like pretentious crap that pretends that it’s not crap, even though every line of it is. Like Wicked. That book is total crap, and he robs from every philosopher I studied in college and acts like he came up with the ideas himself. It’s crap, but it pretends not to be! This book knows it is crap, so I can forgive it.”
“I liked Wicked,” I reminded her. She gave me a look of the disgust, the same one she always gives me when I tell that.
“So did I,” said the 50-something. I smiled at her and looked back toward JerryAnn.
“I don’t agree with his point of view about good and evil, but the story was well told and interesting,” I said.
“I don’t think it was either. It was crap.”
“Not as crappy as the book we just read.”
“The book we just read didn’t pretend to be anything other than crap, so I can forgive it.”
“I can’t. It was boring and predicable. And the dialog was stupid. Everyone addressed the person they were talking to by name in every sentence. No one does that it real life. It made me nuts. Not to mention that it took 100 pages for the murder to even happen. I have nothing against mystery novels, but there are rules. One of those it that someone needs to die by the end of chapter one. Chapter two at the latest.”
“But it was very Mary,” Judy piped up. Mary is probably the oldest person in the book club, and she had suggested the book because we would be reading it over Christmas and it was set at Christmas time. “It was polite, and sweet, and demure, and proper. I can see that this is the type of book she would like. I wonder why she didn’t show up tonight?”
“Shame,” I said. “I bet she knew we’d all hate it, and she was embarrassed. Who wouldn’t be for recommending a look like this?”
“I don’t think Mary would be ashamed of this book, though,” said Judy, “I think she probably enjoyed it, and would be surprised that we didn’t. Think about it: she’s that prim and that proper and that ladylike. Let’s face it: she wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful of it!”
This caused the conversation to come to a screeching halt while we all burst into laughter and tried to regain ourselves. Judy’s assessment of Mary (who not that many years older than Judy is) was dead on. This was also, I’m pretty sure, the fist time anyone has uttered an expletive at Book Club. It had to happen eventually, but none of us expected it from the only grandmother in the room.
“I like Mary, though,” I said when I could breath again. “She’s sweet. I’m glad she’s not here, because I would have felt obligated to say something nice about the book, but since she isn’t, I don’t. I think it’s a unanimous vote: the book sucked.”
“I could have said something nice,” said JerryAnn.
“But it would have been a struggle for the rest of us, and that would hurt Mary’s feelings. I hate the idea of hurting Mary’s feeling more than I hated this book, even.”
“I like her, too, but I didn’t like this book.”
“Hopefully, next month’s book’ll be better.”
“It’s that book by the local writer,” Judy said, “She’s going to show up for the discussion that nigh.”
“Oh, man,” I groaned, “I hope I don’t hate it. You can’t talk trash about a book when the author’s in the room.” Telling a writer that her book is no good is like telling a mother that her baby is ugly; it takes a cold, cold heart to do it and I’m just not that cruel. If I don’t like the book, I’ll spend the evening smiling, nodding, shrugging, and biting my tongue. Had Mary shown up for last weeks meeting, I would have done the same thing, and she didn’t even write the book in question. If everyone hates it, the meeting will be very quite and polite. Which will be boring. Then a remedy occurred to me.
“Remember that time y’all brought that chocolate wine to the meeting?” I asked Judy. “I think we should have wine at all of our meetings. I bet it makes everything a lot more fun.”
“You think?” asked Judy, “More chocolate wine?” One of the local supermarkets features ChocoVine, which is red wine with coco in it. It comes in a handy screw top bottle, and takes just fine when drank from a paper Dixie Cup.
“No, boxed wine,” JerryAnn said. “For this group, I think boxed wine would be the thing.”
Just in case Judy and Kristen don’t come through for us, I think I’ll bring a box of wine and a package of Dixie Cups. My hope is that we can get Mary (assuming she shows up) drunk enough so use the word shit, or maybe to get Judy to show us some of her go-go dancing moves from 40 years ago. The point is, I think it would liven up book club night a little. We are a lively group as it is, but it’s time to take the gloves off.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
Book Club last week was a lot of fun, even if the book we read wasn’t much fun at all. The fact that the book was almost universally hated by the five of us who showed up made it fun to sit around in a circle and talk about just why we hated it so much. Only one member was sympathetic toward it. She didn’t consider it great, finally admitted that it made her sentimental for her dear departed grandma, who used to like such books.
The club has had male members who have come and gone, but in recent months it has become all female. The women gathered in the bookstore last week in age covered each decade of life starting with a 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. The 20-something was new to the group. JerryAnn represented the 30-somethings. I was the lone 40-something (on the low end of that decade, thank you very much). The 50-something was also new. The 60-something was Judy, the former go-go dancer and mother-in-law of the store’s proprietress, Kristen. Kristen herself was home with her three sick children, who had in turn made her not feel so well by passing along their stomach flu to her.
The book was a murder mystery. Sort of. It was based around a murder, but there was no mystery to it because you could tell who the fiend was from the moment she walked onto the page. The red herring in the book was so obviously a red herring (a good murder mystery would have had two or three red herrings) that, except to the local police in the story, that you knew she was beyond suspicion from the moment she spoke her first line.
“I hated it,” said the 20-something. “I couldn’t even finish it.”
“I haven’t finished it, but I will,” I said, “I just want to be proven right about everything I’ve already figured out.”
“There wasn’t much to it,” the 50-something said, “I didn’t care for it.”
“I didn’t mind it,” said JerryAnn. This took Judy and me by surprise, since JerryAnn is the Book Club’s version of Mikey: she hates everything.
“How could you not mind it?” I asked, “It was crap! The writing is simplistic, the plot is transparent, the dialog reads like a bad TV scrip, and it’s complete fluff.”
“I know it’s crap, and it’s fluff, but it doesn’t pretend to be anything else. It’s honest about what it is,” JerryAnn said with a shrug. I stared at her, worried that aliens had kidnapped JerryAnn and that I was talking to a real, live, actual Pod Person. “Look, I don’t like pretentious crap that pretends that it’s not crap, even though every line of it is. Like Wicked. That book is total crap, and he robs from every philosopher I studied in college and acts like he came up with the ideas himself. It’s crap, but it pretends not to be! This book knows it is crap, so I can forgive it.”
“I liked Wicked,” I reminded her. She gave me a look of the disgust, the same one she always gives me when I tell that.
“So did I,” said the 50-something. I smiled at her and looked back toward JerryAnn.
“I don’t agree with his point of view about good and evil, but the story was well told and interesting,” I said.
“I don’t think it was either. It was crap.”
“Not as crappy as the book we just read.”
“The book we just read didn’t pretend to be anything other than crap, so I can forgive it.”
“I can’t. It was boring and predicable. And the dialog was stupid. Everyone addressed the person they were talking to by name in every sentence. No one does that it real life. It made me nuts. Not to mention that it took 100 pages for the murder to even happen. I have nothing against mystery novels, but there are rules. One of those it that someone needs to die by the end of chapter one. Chapter two at the latest.”
“But it was very Mary,” Judy piped up. Mary is probably the oldest person in the book club, and she had suggested the book because we would be reading it over Christmas and it was set at Christmas time. “It was polite, and sweet, and demure, and proper. I can see that this is the type of book she would like. I wonder why she didn’t show up tonight?”
“Shame,” I said. “I bet she knew we’d all hate it, and she was embarrassed. Who wouldn’t be for recommending a look like this?”
“I don’t think Mary would be ashamed of this book, though,” said Judy, “I think she probably enjoyed it, and would be surprised that we didn’t. Think about it: she’s that prim and that proper and that ladylike. Let’s face it: she wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful of it!”
This caused the conversation to come to a screeching halt while we all burst into laughter and tried to regain ourselves. Judy’s assessment of Mary (who not that many years older than Judy is) was dead on. This was also, I’m pretty sure, the fist time anyone has uttered an expletive at Book Club. It had to happen eventually, but none of us expected it from the only grandmother in the room.
“I like Mary, though,” I said when I could breath again. “She’s sweet. I’m glad she’s not here, because I would have felt obligated to say something nice about the book, but since she isn’t, I don’t. I think it’s a unanimous vote: the book sucked.”
“I could have said something nice,” said JerryAnn.
“But it would have been a struggle for the rest of us, and that would hurt Mary’s feelings. I hate the idea of hurting Mary’s feeling more than I hated this book, even.”
“I like her, too, but I didn’t like this book.”
“Hopefully, next month’s book’ll be better.”
“It’s that book by the local writer,” Judy said, “She’s going to show up for the discussion that nigh.”
“Oh, man,” I groaned, “I hope I don’t hate it. You can’t talk trash about a book when the author’s in the room.” Telling a writer that her book is no good is like telling a mother that her baby is ugly; it takes a cold, cold heart to do it and I’m just not that cruel. If I don’t like the book, I’ll spend the evening smiling, nodding, shrugging, and biting my tongue. Had Mary shown up for last weeks meeting, I would have done the same thing, and she didn’t even write the book in question. If everyone hates it, the meeting will be very quite and polite. Which will be boring. Then a remedy occurred to me.
“Remember that time y’all brought that chocolate wine to the meeting?” I asked Judy. “I think we should have wine at all of our meetings. I bet it makes everything a lot more fun.”
“You think?” asked Judy, “More chocolate wine?” One of the local supermarkets features ChocoVine, which is red wine with coco in it. It comes in a handy screw top bottle, and takes just fine when drank from a paper Dixie Cup.
“No, boxed wine,” JerryAnn said. “For this group, I think boxed wine would be the thing.”
Just in case Judy and Kristen don’t come through for us, I think I’ll bring a box of wine and a package of Dixie Cups. My hope is that we can get Mary (assuming she shows up) drunk enough so use the word shit, or maybe to get Judy to show us some of her go-go dancing moves from 40 years ago. The point is, I think it would liven up book club night a little. We are a lively group as it is, but it’s time to take the gloves off.
