I Started a Book Club and It Failed

To know me is to know my love for books. And it all started in school.

It wasn’t one book that made me fall in love with reading. It wasn’t one teacher who encouraged me to pick up reading. It wasn’t any one moment in time really. Rather, it was a string of moments, bound together like the spine of a book.

School felt like a lonely place for me. For most of my time there, I didn’t feel like I belonged because quite frankly, I didn’t. That’s a whole other story though, but I’ll leave it at “you Armenians” and, as kids these days say, if you know, you know.

School was a lonely place for me and the only refuge I had was the school library. Where it was acceptable to be alone. Where it was preferable actually because if you were alone, you were less likely to be noisy. Not only did it feel validated to be both lonely and alone, but it also meant that I couldn’t be bullied in the library because that would require noise. I was safe in the school library. I was safe from the outside world. I was safe from the noise. I was safe from the reminder of my loneliness. I was safe because I was alone, truly alone.

And so, books came my refuge by association. They offered me an escape from my current reality into infinite alternate ones. They allowed me the magical opportunity to step into the shoes and minds of infinite characters. I could go anywhere I wanted. I could be anyone I wanted. This nurtured my sense of imagination. It challenged my sense of perception; to feel and think in ways I’d never thought possible, as early as 4th grade.

That was then and this is now. And the time in between, while an important part of the journey, is not the point of today’s letter.

To know me is to know my love for books which is why when I decided to start a book club last December, after years of toying around with the idea, it was less of a surprise to those who know me and more of a “well it’s about damn time”.

I’d never been part of a book club before so all I knew was all I’d observed from others’. Select a book every month, prepare talking points, and meet to discuss. I constantly hear people utter a combination of “I wish I read more”, “I want to start reading”, “I really should start reading more”, or some other variation of those words. And so, when I launched my book club, I was certain I’d have a lot of people interested in joining. It was just time for NY resolutions and I’d already been sharing snippets of books I’d been reading for years which led to mini-book club discussions in my DMs anyways, so the conditions for success were primed.

I didn’t have any metrics against which to measure a ‘successful’ book club. I just kept going at it. Book club was one of the only (if not the only) pursuits of mine that I didn’t feel self-conscious promoting. Typically, I’m hesitant to “promote” because I hate sounding sales-y. But not with book club. I didn’t think twice about it. Never did.

So then, what’s with my title? How did book club fail?

It technically did because the goal of book club was to create a community of readers who held each other accountable when the going got tough and who enjoyed discussing and debating whether or not we were all on the same page (pun intended). It failed by definition because I can’t force people to read. I can’t force them to show up to book club discussions. I can’t force them to make time and energy for a habit they want to cultivate. They might not want it enough and that has nothing to do with me.

However, while book club failed in one area, it exceeded expectations in other more important ones:

• I experienced sharing about something I care about without feeling self-conscious. Books far outweighed my fear of putting myself out there and sounding sales-y so much so that that worry barely crossed my mind. I never thought I’d see the day!

• The process held me accountable. It allowed me to train my reading muscle and in doing so, only further cemented books in my life (I can hear my sister think “nerd” to herself as she reads this).

• I’d thought the only way to be impactful was reaching a high number of people. However, the side conversations I’d have with members or discussions I’d have with people in my DMs after sharing snippets of my morning pages, reminded me that impact is about quality.

• The same words on the same page are interpreted so differently from one person to the next. It reminded me of the importance of connecting. Of wanting to be seen and heard. Of feeling safe to share your thoughts and opinions and experiences on certain topics, maybe for the first time in a long time. The same words on the same page are interpreted differently even when they’re reread by the same reader. The words stay the same, but it’s the reader who has changed.

I started a book club because it was way overdue. I started a book club because it made sense for me to do so. I started a book club because I wanted others to experience books the way I do.

But they never will because my experience is my own, just as theirs is theirs.

Books mean something to me that is unique to me and me alone. Books look, feel, and smell like safety, adventure, knowledge, confidence, infinite possibilities — to me. And book club reminded me of that.

In ‘The Cat Who Saved Books’, Sosuke Natsukawa posits that books have souls. A book is mere paper until it’s read, after which, it’s brought to life by the reader’s thoughts and emotions.

How utterly brilliant.