In Praise of Bookclubs

One of the many unexpected pleasures publishing a book has wrought has been the opportunity to meet book clubs who have read THE LOST GIRLS. I’ve done this both locally and long-distance (via Skype) more than two dozen times in the six months since my book came out. I’ve visited book clubs down the street and as far away as Georgia, Maryland, Kansas City, Seattle, and Boston.

Sometimes a friend will invite me, but just as often it’s a stranger or a friend of a friend who hears I’m willing to do this and sends an email. I always say yes, mark my calendar, make sure I’ve got my time zones right, and pour myself a glass of wine.

I expected my conversations to be enlightening and helpful, and they have been. People have been frank about the book, and I’ve learned what resonates and doesn’t resonate with a wide range of people. Things I thought I’d made clear through subtext didn’t come through as well as I wanted.

Experiences and emotions I wasn’t sure I’d honored properly have touched people more than I hoped. Some of my flawed characters have been embraced, while others for whom I tried to sow sympathy have not. It’s been a remarkable lens through which to view my work, kind of like having several hundred after-the-fact beta readers. I am certain I am a better writer for it.

But what I didn’t expect was how profoundly moving these encounters would be. Not because of my book, but because of the book clubs themselves. All over America, there are women gathering in one another’s homes to talk about books and share their lives. Some have as few as four members; others as many as thirty. Some have elaborate rules, like the book club in Portland that passes a wooden spoon from hand to hand because, as one woman explained, “We have a couple of serial interrupters.”

Some are exclusive, with long waiting lists; others take all comers and hope for social alchemy to work its magic. Some are made up of young women whose small children peep down at us through upstairs banisters. Some are made up of grandmothers. Some have members young and old, a wonderful cross-generational literary communion.

I’ve been to book clubs that have been meeting for decades. I went to a book club in Savannah that was having its first meeting ever. I’ve been to book clubs created among neighbors, so no one would ever have to drive to a meeting. I’ve been to book clubs that double as Bible study groups, clubs that grew from college alumni associations, clubs whose members met through children who had the same teacher in third grade, and clubs that started among work colleagues and nurtured friendships that have long outlasted the original job.

Most of them share a meal — sometimes prepared by the host, sometimes potluck, sometimes takeout pizza. One book club, here in my town, calls itself the Sisters of the Traveling Bowl. There is, indeed, an ENORMOUS wooden bowl that travels to each hostess’ house, there to be filled with local product brought by all the members and tossed into a delicious, eclectic communal salad. A book club I visited near Seattle serves a three-course home-cooked meal on a beautifully spread table, a breathtaking hostessing enterprise that seems less onerous once you realize there are twelve members, so no one needs to do it more than once a year.

During this especially divisive time, it’s also been heartening to venture into living rooms inside and outside my own personal bubble. I went to a book club the night after the election where no one talked about my book at all; we shared our fears about the world to come and pledged to support women everywhere, however we could.

I listened as a book club in Alabama, Trump voters all, questioned the issues of faith I wove through my story with passion and respect. Most, though, are apolitical, at least with me, and sitting amidst all these women across the social and political spectrum, laughing and discussing a story – my story, but it could be any story – has given me hope. We, as a country, are not so divided as our politics makes it seem.

Most of all, as I’ve watched these women share their meals, their friendships, and their love of books, it has reminded me of something I always knew but occasionally lost sight of: that the relationships among women – daughters, sisters, and friends – are the marrow of humanity.

So thank you to the Sisters of the Traveling Bowl, the Blue Dots, the VGirls, and all the other book clubs who have invited me to join them. You have given me a gift that is perhaps even more valuable for being so unlooked-for. Cheers to all book groups everywhere, and the millions of women who bring them to life. Never stop meeting, and always, always read the book!

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After a decade practicing law and another raising kids, Heather decided to finally write the novel she’d always talked about writing. After she spent several more years learning how not to write like a lawyer, THE LOST GIRLS was published by HarperCollins/William Morrow in July 2016. She lives in Mill Valley, California, with her husband and two teenaged children. When she’s not writing she’s biking, hiking, neglecting potted plants, and reading books by other people that she wishes she’d written.

About The Lost Girls

A stunning debut novel that examines the price of loyalty, the burden of regret, the meaning of salvation, and the sacrifices we make for those we love, told in the voices of two unforgettable women linked by a decades-old family mystery at a picturesque lake house.

In 1935, six-year-old Emily Evans vanishes from her family’s vacation home on a remote Minnesota lake. Her disappearance destroys the family—her father commits suicide, and her mother and two older sisters spend the rest of their lives at the lake house, keeping a decades-long vigil for the lost child.

Sixty years later, Lucy, the quiet and watchful middle sister, lives in the lake house alone. Before her death, she writes the story of that devastating summer in a notebook that she leaves, along with the house, to the only person who might care: her grandniece, Justine. For Justine, the lake house offers freedom and stability—a way to escape her manipulative boyfriend and give her daughters the home she never had. But the long Minnesota winter is just beginning. The house is cold and dilapidated. The dark, silent lake is isolated and eerie. Her only neighbor is a strange old man who seems to know more about the summer of 1935 than he’s telling.

Soon Justine’s troubled oldest daughter becomes obsessed with Emily’s disappearance, her mother arrives to steal her inheritance, and the man she left launches a dangerous plan to get her back. In a house haunted by the sorrows of the women who came before her, Justine must overcome their tragic legacy if she hopes to save herself and her children.

 

 

 

 

Tags: bookclubs, featured, women writers

Category: On Writing