BOOKWORMS ANONYMOUS: A Non-Traditional Book Club for All Readers
by Jan Stafford Kellis
Copyright 2009 by Jan Stafford Kellis. All Rights Reserved.
Bookworm [book-wurm]: (noun) One obsessed with books, nearly to the point of mania; one compelled to read all words in observation, regardless of context or circumstance; one possessing a preoccupation or fascination with the written word.
This book is dedicated to Bookworms everywhere.
Don’t just sit there, read!
*****
Foreword
by
Patricia Wood, author of LOTTERY
I write stories that come out of my imagination. There is a vision that formulates in my subconscious of how I want my tale to affect the reader. My goal is always to pull a reader into a world they might not have ever experienced. It is art. It is my art. But just the creation of the story does not mean my art is finished. It takes someone to actually read my story, to bring into the mix his or her experiences. By doing that it will make that particular story unlike any other. Is art finished then? In my opinion no. The final culmination is when readers come together and discuss the piece of art, the novel, the story. It is especially meaningful when the author can be included in the discussion.
As an author when I participate with book clubs it allows me to realize the fruition of my art. To bring it full circle with the reader. Book clubs make literature come alive and it is vibrant with the talking of it, with the urgency one has when one has read a fabulous book. To share? Well that is the basis for it all.
Since my debut novel LOTTERY came out in August 2007 I have talked with over 100 book clubs. We have met on boats, in hotels, in homes, by email, on SKYPE and ichat and via speakerphone. Technology has made this possible — Many book clubs — Many differences in meeting place and style. Each one unique and satisfying to the group members and talking with them has added much insight to my craft as an author.
I am honored to write the foreword to a book about one such unique group and hope you take away the desire to create a group of your own.
Authors will thank you for it because it takes their book from being a solitary pleasure and transforms it by sharing. And that is the point of a good book —
To share it with others.
Much aloha,
Patricia Wood
*****
Acknowledgments
I composed this book during a long, cold winter while my husband Jason watched the Detroit Red Wings. Situated Indian-style on my recliner with a laptop balanced on my knees with notes and outlines spread across both arms of the chair, I transformed them from scrawled index cards into something I hope people will enjoy reading. Jason kept me supplied with wine and snacks so I wouldn’t have to upset my precarious piles of papers, and this is why he deserves to be thanked first. It’s also why I now enjoy hockey season.
The Bookworms Anonymous editorial staff earned a close second in thank ranking, for tolerating my repeated requests to read the latest revisions and provide new suggestions. No one complained, not even once. Angie, Jenny Penny, Janelle, Kelly and Stephanie each deserve a generous monetary remuneration for their proofing and editing efforts, but they will receive what I can afford: a copy of the book. My recipe editor, Danielle, formatted the entire recipe section for uniformity and straightforward wording. Thank you!
I must also recognize the Bookworms, the group of women who provided much of the material for this book. They didn’t realize it at the time, but I was madly recording details after each meeting! I hope we continue to enjoy swapping books for years to come. Thank you for your enthusiastic support of this project.
Patricia Wood deserves special mention here. When I requested permission to reprint one sentence from her novel Lottery, she not only responded promptly and positively, she offered to write a foreword for this book! Her support helped propel me to the finish line. Thank you, Patricia!
Finally, I thank my mom for teaching me how to read, and Angie, for teaching me how to write (I take full responsibility for any errors, though—Angie can only do so much!).
This book is based on a true story; I blended factual characters and events with my somewhat reliable memories to create a work of fact-based fiction. Embellished events and paraphrased conversations appear herein. The meetings portrayed are accurate recreations of typical meetings, and the recipes and menus are authentic.
*****
Chapter One
!
The Quiz:
Would you rather read than watch TV?
Is your Christmas wish list mostly books?
Do you look forward to reading mail from QPB?
Is amazon.com your favorite on-line shopping site?
Would you pack two or more books for a 4-day trip?
Do you have more books than bookshelf space?
Do you think of rainy days as “good reading weather”?
If you answered yes to three or more questions, then please join us!
I first thought someone had diagnosed my compulsive reading disorder and was presenting a cure. Some sort of 12-step program where each book addict must stand before their peers and admit sheepishly: My name is Jan and I’m addicted to reading. I’m sure there’s help out there for people like me, but I am comfortable with my affliction. In fact, I like it…the only way to manage compulsive reading is to read. Carrying a book everywhere prevents me from reading cereal boxes, doctor office pamphlets and vacuum cleaner instructions; but those items would suffice in a pinch.
I continued to read the card in my hand and realized it was an invitation—not to a support group or rehab center, but to a small gathering of fellow book addicts. Apparently, the object was to celebrate and share our love of books—not diminish or control our reading habits. Of course I would join such a group! I had a week to prepare for the first meeting.
One would think a week’s preparation ample to merely attend, not host, such an event, but I didn’t know who else was invited, what I should wear, and most importantly, which books I should bring. Surely other book addicts read better books than I, requiring deep analysis of the symbolism for the true message the author is conveying. My recent divorce severely impacted my book choices. I was reading only light, fluffy stories that didn’t require concentration or mental energy, or contain any violence conducive to nightmares. Not that I slept alone. No, in a mere 10 months I’d managed to find a new boyfriend (he was my husband by the time I received the invitation) who moved in within weeks, after falling in love with me and my two daughters at our first meeting. Jason epitomizes Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, or Yooper, outdoorsman: he traps, hunts, fishes, owns a construction business, and lives in a flannel shirt and baseball cap. We enjoy many divergent interests, ensuring we never run out of conversation fodder. Although he doesn’t like to read, he encouraged me to attend the Bookworms Anonymous meeting.
I wondered if, at the meetings, we would discuss the symbolism of each book, always my least favorite part of English class. I read for entertainment and/or information, but I don’t read to unearth the nugget of wisdom buried beneath layers of metaphors, symbols and private demons. If the author has something to say to the reader, she should just say it! Rather than make the reader delve into the far dusty corners of the author’s psyche to discover the hidden meaning, she should keep it simple and save English students everywhere from fabricating symbolic clues to appease the teacher. The first time I was assigned a story dissection, I remember asking my mom how I would know which part of the story is sincere and which parts allude to something else. She just shrugged and said, “Crank up your b.s. level. You’ll do fine.” She was right.
Back to the looming invitation. I settled on wearing jeans and a sweater, quite dressy for functions in the Upper Peninsula, but UP fashion is a topic I’ll explore later. The book selection still had me stumped; I felt I would be judged or even ridiculed for reading books without substance. I finally settled on two books, after rejecting approximately 20 sitting on my shelf:
The Persian Pickle Club, by Sandra Dallas
Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy
Surely, these strategic choices would illustrate to the club that although I enjoyed a light read about a quilting bee whose members protected one of their own when she murdered her abusive husband, I could also discuss Tolstoy’s classic tale of unrequited love and dismal Russian lives. Thus, I was adequately prepared in case any mention of symbolism came up.
The night of the meeting was cold and dark. Is there any other sort of night in November in Upper Michigan? Janelle’s house looked warm and cozy, set above the street at the end of an uphill driveway. At the last minute I left Anna Karenina in the car. Surely all bibliophiles have read it already; I would only mention it if pressed for more books. Now I worried I was inadequately prepared, bringing one slim volume to a book club. I anticipated crippling humiliation as I knocked on the door.
Once again, I worried needlessly. My knock was answered promptly and I was ushered into the dining room, seated at the table, and served a glass of wine! A few simple hors d’oeuvres waited on the table, and a glass of ice water at each place setting. Janelle did most of the talking, explaining her ideas for our book club. The basic premise consisted of monthly meetings, each of us bringing the latest books we’d read, and swapping our books with each other. We’d save money, be exposed to more books, and have an excuse to chat and drink wine. There was no down side to this proposal.
The other Charter Members of Bookworms Anonymous included:
Anne, my mom. I’ve known her since birth, and she taught me to read. My earliest memory of her is my asking her to play a game, but she couldn’t because she was reading. I wanted so badly to be an adult so I could sit around and read books! Unable to completely relinquish her teaching career, she’s semi-retired and conducts two or three GED preparation classes per week.
Angie, my now retired high school English teacher, whom I’ve always admired but had never encountered in a social situation. Retirement granted Angie more reading time, and if she isn’t reading, she’s probably outside gardening, walking, skiing, or riding her bicycle, complete with a flower-bedecked wicker basket. I was honored and thrilled to join a book club with Angie. She and her husband live here in town, and their son and daughter-in-law work at a University downstate.
Jean, another retired woman who has lived here for 30-some years, and is still involved in all kinds of community organizations and events, including playing the piano and directing the choir. She and her husband live in their empty nest, which he has filled with his handmade metal art, both functional and decorative.
Janelle, the hostess, an umpteenth-generation town native who lived in California for several years before returning home with her husband and new son. They now have two sons, three years apart, both in grade school but maturing quickly. Janelle and I share many interests, reading ranking number one on the list. We frequently walk together, wearing the blacktop shiny on our circuitous route around town, talking about everything from diaper rash to dementia and solving the world’s problems. Quick with a witty comment or story on a given topic, Janelle is the fastest reader in our bunch and enjoys some local renown as a jewelry maker and an artist, using watercolors and pastels to create portraits and nature scenes.
After our first meeting, two more Bookworms were inducted:
Christine, who designed and built her own octagonal house on a piece of acreage about twenty minutes from town, a single woman with a grown daughter living near Detroit. She plows her own impossibly long driveway, hauls her own wood, and frequently barters with neighbors for various chores or jobs. She was a midwife for many years, and now works part time and spends most of her spare hours kayaking all over the UP.
Jen, my sister, who recently moved back to the UP ready to resume village life. She reads about as much as I do, and although we’re seven years apart, we end each other’s sentences and often experience simultaneous, identical thoughts. People around town frequently mistake each of us for the other, not noticing the subtle differences in hair color and facial structure. I’m amazed how similar we’ve become; as children, I sought quiet corners in which to read and listen to the adults’ conversation while Jen led a more exciting life, a constant performance she choreographed on the fly, skipping, twirling, climbing trees, skinning knees. Our mother called her Mrs. Jones, often interrupting my reading with the phrase, “Mrs. Jones, please sit still for five minutes.” I grew up and settled down early, anchoring myself with a baby and husband, but Jen didn’t pause for an intermission. She left the UP to study foreign cultures—namely, California and Ohio—eventually discovering she belongs here. She returned and married a local she’d known in high school, and they live next door to his parents. He’ll never entertain the idea of moving from the area but he does allow her to rearrange the furniture as often as she wants.
At first glance, we appear a somewhat mismatched bunch. But besides geographical proximity and a love of reading, we enjoy varied interests—skiing, kayaking, snowshoeing, or walking. All of us have children, half of us have been divorced, most of us are currently married, some are retired, and some of us wish we were retired so we could read more. Our ages range from 30 – 70, and most of us have known each other for at least 30 years (including the 30-year-old).
In addition to enjoying similar books, we applaud frugality in a fellow Bookworm; special notice is granted when one finds a book costing less than five dollars worthy of our attention. One of the reasons we chose to form this unusual type of book club is to save money, so we weren’t all forced to buy our own copy of a specific book each month. Additionally, we discovered we read books we otherwise would not, based on a fellow Bookworm’s endorsement. Our literary circle also provides an important social structure helping each of us through various life trials, including birth, death, caring for elderly parents, scary medical diagnoses, marriage, career changes, new business ventures, and retirement. Rather than gossip at our monthly meetings, we tend to share news about ourselves and our lives as only a few of us socialize outside the Bookworm venue.
Each Bookworm meeting (they are never called parties) consists of food, book reviews, and personal insights, starting with food. When we started, we served hors d’oeuvres and wine, then gradually morphed into more complicated hors d’oeuvres and more interesting presentations, eventually upgrading to a proper meal. We start with dinner consisting of a salad, main course and dessert, all vegetarian fare to accommodate our three vegetarians, but we do eat seafood. After our meal we choose someone to begin, and listen to brief reviews of the books she has read since the previous meeting. Progressing around the table round-robin style, we try to make the books we like sound appealing to the other Bookworms. After a book is reviewed, we decide who should read it next (basically, the first one to respond takes it), and the book is passed off. The book will return to a future meeting, to be re-reviewed and passed to another Bookworm. Each of us will take it for a month or more at a time, eventually returning it to its owner.
Everyone else presented more interesting books than I. They actually brought some authors I’d never encountered before; I was surprised and shocked to discover I didn’t recognize their names. After all, I was no stranger to the bookstore and library! How did these authors escape my attention? Not only had I never heard of them, the other Bookworms had already read them. And so, I started my Bookworms Anonymous membership at a distinct disadvantage. For the first time since I learned how to read, I had some catching up to do; Barbara Kingsolver and Jane Hamilton became my new favorite authors.
Eight years have passed since our initial meeting and our original septet is still intact. We rarely meet without full attendance, and our meetings are always filled with great food, lots of chitchat, wine, coffee, dessert, and books, books, books. It’s divine.
What I expected to be a loss of reading time turned out to increase the volume and enhance the quality of my book selections.
* * *
January launches the calendar year, and more importantly, horizontal hold season, in which the reader reclines and reads avidly. Because people are reluctant to brave the weather to visit each other, there’s little reason to clean the house. Fewer events mean fewer obligations, especially compared to the previous holiday month. With virtually zero outside maintenance necessary save snow removal, it’s perfectly permissible to lie around and read. We also enjoy bright sunny days, great for snowshoeing or cross-country skiing, after which we can drink hot tea and…of course…read.
Home high school basketball games are the only events drawing people from their cozy homes on these frigid nights and this year, our basketball team deserves special mention. We are a class ‘D’ school, the smallest size in the sports conference, meaning anyone who tries out for a sport is accepted on the team. Like anyone else, we have good years and bad years, but this has been a great year for us. Our boys look fierce on the court, working together like a machine, whipping in and out and back and forth so fast sometimes I don’t even see them steal the ball, and suddenly they’re racing back down the court and shooting another lay up. A couple of them leap through the air, weightless, twisting and landing with the ball magically swooshing through the net. We’re always proud of our kids here, but when they’re playing ball like this our pride is palpable. The boys don’t belong to themselves or their families when they’re on the court; they belong to the spectators, the ragtag cheerleaders who gather on a winter’s night to witness another spectacular feat. The band strikes up the school song, prompting the crowd to stand as if on cue and clap in time, whooping as the last note sounds. It’s a lively event, and one of the best ways to spend a winter evening in a small town.
This January, with its biting, interminable cold and wonderful basketball game-winning energy, is my turn to host Bookworms. It grows dark around 5:00 p.m., so I punch holes in the snow along our driveway and place a tealight candle in each one, to light the way for my friends as they approach the house. We’ll start with a tossed salad, followed by a Spinach Ricotta Tart and ending with Walnut Stuffed Slow-Baked Apples. Satisfying fare for a frigid winter night. I’ll brew some decaffeinated coffee to serve with my bottle of red and bottle of white wines, both of which I’ve been saving for months. The house will be cleaned and candles lit, and a centerpiece will appear on the table. I’ll break out the good china for dessert to enhance the presentation. This month, I have a finished mud room and a new painting by my daughter on display. My husband will be ice fishing and my daughters will be occupied in their bedrooms. We’ll eat, visit, laugh and carry on, reviewing books and talking about life.
The Bookworms start trooping in just as I finish setting the table. They’re all decked out in colorful winter garb, Janelle and Jean in red, my mom in purple, Jen in green, and Christine in a lovely teal coat with fur trim, sporting fancy handmade mittens made from recycled sweaters. Angie is the last one to arrive, muttering to herself about having short legs and not keeping up with the others. Angie portrays “up north” elegance—always dressed in a neat, practical outdoorsy-yet-classy style, she looks fresh off the page of an L.L.Bean catalog.
Books introduced this month:
The Birth House, by Ami McKay
The Whistling Season, by Ivan Doig
Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert
The Piano Tuner, by Daniel Mason
Since I was visibly twitching as Angie reviewed Ivan Doig’s newest book, she handed it to me before she finished discussing it. I read it in four days. This was easily Doig’s best book—I discovered him in a used book store a few years ago, and have since read all of his fiction. Each book has been passed around the Bookworms and received positive reviews. I expect this newest selection, The Whistling Season, to earn the Bookworms Stamp of Approval.
This novel, set in rural Montana in 1910, is told by the eldest of three brothers who are being raised on a farm by their widower father who can’t cook but has an exceptional command of the English language; I even grabbed the dictionary while reading a couple of his creatively-phrased passages. The boys attend a one-room school, arriving every morning on horseback, sometimes facing backwards. The usual schoolyard shenanigans are handily solved by the new teacher who hails from Minnesota, with a rather hazy past that is eventually explained. I don’t want to reveal too much, but Haley’s Comet, Latin lessons, death, marriage, betrayal, lies and strength of character are all explored in this book. Ivan Doig’s love of language strengthens the story, adding an attractive dimension for word lovers like me.
My stack contains a few returns tonight—books already read and reviewed by at least one other Bookworm, which I’ve now read and will briefly re-review so the next person can take them. I have one new paperback to share with the group: Eat Pray Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. This book chronicles a year in the author’s life, a sort of travelogue of her journey around the world, as she stays for extended periods of time in Italy (where she decompresses and eats), India (where she learns to pray), and Indonesia (where she discovers love), in that order. An intimate look at this woman’s life, philosophy, and intense learning experiences, this book deserves shelf space. I read a brief passage marked with a Post-It note to best illustrate the language. I’m sure all Bookworms will enjoy this one, and when I finish reviewing, everyone looks eager to read it so I toss it across the table to Christine.
My mom brought The Piano Tuner tonight, and delivers a lukewarm review about a renowned piano tuner who travels to the far reaches of Burma to tune a piano for an eccentric Surgeon-Major in the British Army. His trip to Burma is long and tedious, comprising half the story, and the piano tuner enjoys Burma so much, he stays long after his work is finished. The few interesting sections and graceful turns of phrase are barely enough to maintain consciousness while reading. After reading this thin novel, I agreed with Mom’s review: the drawn-out journey and slow action render the story tiresome and (although I hate this word, it applies here) boring.
Mom and I share DNA and a pet peeve: mentally capable people claiming boredom. Uttering the word ‘bored’ or any of its derivatives was strictly taboo when I was a child. Even a subtle intimation about having nothing to do was immediately met with, “You’re smart enough to find something to do. You’re not a dullard, are you? Only dull people get bored.” Mom’s remedy for boredom usually involved chores, so I learned early on to occupy myself by reading. I adopted my mom’s habit of grabbing a book every time I leave the house, thus prepared for delays or downtime. Keeping a book readily available transforms inconveniences (such as waiting for the doctor or the tow truck) into reading opportunities. I can’t relate to those who waste their doctor’s office waiting time fidgeting or playing cell phone games. Obviously, their mothers never taught them to carry a book, effectively handicapping their ability to entertain themselves. Occasionally I forget my book and enter the universe unarmed, unprepared for postponements or contingencies. A niggling anxiety, akin to that felt when a purse or child is forgotten, will infiltrate my mind and compromise my entire day.
After the meeting, we discuss a few books we plan to read or have read in the past, and Sue Monk Kidd’s The Mermaid Chair is mentioned because it’s sitting on my shelf in clear view of the table. Jean has read this book and declares it trash, recalling sex with a Monk and a crazy chair and something about water. We never know what Jean will say—she’s 70 years old or so, and possesses a sophistication and grace to which most of us aspire but few attain. Raised on the East Coast, she carries herself with a classy confidence she manages to maintain even when she utters shockingly profane comments. She’s one of those people who can do or say anything and it seems appropriate no matter what it is. When I told her about divorcing my first husband, I expected the usual response: lowered head, serious facial expression, the requisite ‘I’m sorry’. Not Jean—she jumped up and down and clapped her hands, whooping loudly, celebrating my impending freedom and endorsing my decision, assuring me life was about to get easier. She’s the one people call when they need someone to play the piano for a wedding, graduation, funeral or other event. She speaks at various events as well, able to inspire, cajole or comfort the entire audience as the occasion requires. Jean is a rare gem and we’re lucky she found our small village and moved here thirty years ago.
Though Jean thought The Mermaid Chair was trashy, I read it to find out for myself and was pleased to note there is more to the story than the Monk, the sex and the chair. To me, this was a book about a 40-something woman whose daughter has just left for college, and feels that her marriage is less than exciting. Her mother injures herself, and the woman ends up caring for her mother and finally resolving 30-year-old issues regarding her father’s death. In the end she discovers stability is desirable and the former rut looks more like a comfortable groove. It’s sort of a late bloomer’s coming-of-age story, and contains some important messages. I ended up bringing it to the next Bookworms meeting.
Our meetings follow a pretty loose format: basically we arrive and greet, sit and eat, review and swap books, then schedule our next meeting. Even though we live in a small, isolated town, we sometimes don’t cross paths between meetings. Over the years we’ve scheduled meetings around our work schedules, volunteer schedules, vacations and other events. There are seven of us, so if two or more can’t attend a meeting we reschedule. We’ve been known to cut vacations short, hire babysitters, and even send our husbands to the bar in order to attend a BA meeting (or host one, in the case of the husband at the bar).
Since our meetings revolve around books, the book reviews are critical. One must sum up the pertinent details regarding character, story line or plot, and entice other Bookworms to read the book. The challenge is to relate enough details to interest another Worm without spoiling any plot twists or revealing a surprise ending. Some book reviews consist of one phrase, immediately inspiring everyone to read it: “This is Anna Quindlen’s new one,” is enough to incite a friendly riot as we all reach for the book. A review of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go was slightly longer, and cryptically phrased: “This story takes place at a private school in England. It’s bizarre and disturbing. That’s all I can say.” Other book reviews are laborious pleas rarely resulting in any interested takers: “This subject is something everyone should know about; it’s written in newspaper article style, like a documentary, about World War II and the heinous acts committed by both US soldiers and the Japanese.” After hearing this off-putting review, we each gaze toward the ceiling waiting for the moment to pass. Most book reviews, though, contain a brief synopsis of the plot and/or characters without revealing too much. Eight years of accumulated Bookworm history allows us to accurately predict who will like a given book; sometimes a book review is aimed at only one or two Bookworms, with the (usually correct) assumption the others won’t want to read it.
After we arrive and greet, then sit and eat, we enjoy some small talk while we sip our wine, water or decaf coffee—I usually have all three beverages, sentinels lined up along the top of my place mat, protecting me from dehydration; then the hostess will ask someone to begin. We all retrieve stacks of books from our bags and prepare to review our latest reads. We pour more wine and settle in, listening to reviews of new books and of those still making their way around the group.
With so much great material, the book discussion is a long one. Our conversation finally returns to mundane matters such as dental work and new movie releases. No one is eager to leave the warm house for the icy trek to the frosty car, which won’t warm up until it arrives home. Someone finally stands up, stashing her books, and we hastily schedule the next meeting. Everyone troops out the door and drives away, the candles along the drive glowing weakly in the inky night.
J
Jan’s
Menu
Lentil
Pate*
Spinach
& Ricotta Tart*
Fresh
Fruit
Walnut-Stuffed
Apples*
Coffee
* Merlot * Chardonnay * Ice Water *recipes
begin on page ____.
Lentil Pate*
Spinach & Ricotta Tart*
Fresh Fruit
Walnut-Stuffed Apples*
Coffee * Merlot * Chardonnay * Ice Water
*recipes included in Appendix C
*****
Chapter Two
@
The sun shines with such intensity in midwinter, the snow doubling the effect by bouncing sparkles around and banishing the memories of January’s gloom, sunglasses are required to avoid blindness. This season is best enjoyed from inside, as the thermometer hovers around zero and the slightest breath of wind causes my whole body to ache. Enter book shuffling, a sport most enjoyed in the winter when we read more and surrender to our hibernating tendencies. My bookcase is organized first by type of book, then alphabetically by author, except the books I haven’t yet read, which are in the order I plan to read them. For instance, the bottom shelf contains reference books—everything from gardening to cooking, old text books, wine making, dog training, hair cutting, cross stitch, sewing and scrapbooking, almost all of my interests represented. All reference books on the middle shelves are language oriented: dictionaries, thesauri, writing style guides, punctuation guides, composition exercises, and books featuring an irreverent approach to writing such as Woe is I and Eats, Shoots and Leaves. The remaining middle shelf real estate is reserved for fiction books I’ve saved, ostensibly to re-read. So far, the only books I’ve ever re-read were Gone With the Wind, The Thorn Birds, and Grease. I was still in high school and going through an annual re-reading phase, reading the same three books each year in addition to my regular reading. I haven’t re-read anything since, and yet I am compelled to maintain a small library of possible future rereads in case I ever run completely out of reading material, a highly improbable, quite ghastly scenario.