May 25, 2006
1 isn't the loneliest number
In a book club, Jill's tastes for literature stand on their own.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I've been in a book club for two years.

The beginning stages brought six bright women together for a literary fix.

We met once a month, rotating houses and supplying each forum with a lavish spread: wine, beer, maybe even champagne, and a feast of delectable hors d'oeuvres and desserts, because you can't parley on an empty stomach.

I can attack a bowl of mixed nuts and swig a flute of champagne like nobody's business, then get right down to a line of questioning administered by proxy to a Cliff's Notes exacting blueprint.

The first book was Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath," which I'd never read.

(So many books to read, so many bands to see.)

I was so engrossed reading this book, and when I finished, its chilling conclusion coursed through me. Lying in bed, I closed the book and pondered its relevant pulse, beating still in today's corporate hierarchy. Then I read the last two chapters once more.

I'm a sucker for bad news.

This is what literature is supposed to accomplish; and so, I found my independent self a member of a book club, the first real non-sports group of my life.

Book club is a time to "take the floor," a time to exfoliate some of life's brittle dust onto other voracious readers. But members of my book club grew tired of my piercing angst.

More and more we were split down the middle, realizing one tragic book club flaw: We didn't have the same interests in authors.

Some members begged that I no longer choose the books. "Jill picks weird books that no one understands," one hostess exclaimed. Another said, "Can't we read something happy for once?"

A few of them have taxing, complicated daily jobs and asked if we could "lighten it up a bit," so we read several books about female editors living in NYC, dating their bosses or best friends' boyfriends, or not dating at all.

I know when I'm not wanted, but I like these people. I suggested we all read what we want but still meet once a month for champagne.

Last month only two of us showed up at Starbucks.

We ordered tea and crumpets and sat discussing men, kids, world leaders and good chicken recipes.

Literature is a personal thing, and just like all my former clubs of one, I hold tight as the sole member.