Why I Am Not Beloved in My Book Club

I’m an avid reader. Fiction, history, biography, science—I’ll even pick up a psychology treatise if it’s lying around looking vulnerable. Since I was already reading six or seven books a month, joining a book club seemed sensible. So naturally, I joined four.

At first, it was delightful. The members—overwhelmingly women—welcomed me warmly, or at least with the curiosity one reserves for a platypus. Anything but bashful, I jumped into the discussions and made a point of never criticizing anyone’s opinion. Yet after several months, I began to notice a pattern: whenever I opened my mouth, the room tensed the way a Labrador stiffens before a thunderstorm.

Being a modern, introspective adult too cheap to consult an actual psychologist, I turned to AI for answers. I fed Copilot a few of my book-club comments and asked, “What gives?” After an initial round of flattery about my erudition and insightfulness, I told it to knock off the kissing up and give me the straight dope.

Unaccustomed to permission for such bluntness, the AI became positively giddy. It produced a list of indictments so comprehensive, I briefly wondered if it had been attending the meetings with me.

Below are the charges:

Count 1: Over-analysis 

Apparently, most people read a novel and think, “That was enjoyable.” I follow the last page with an autopsy. I identify (invent?) themes the author didn’t even know he was writing, diagnose characters, and flag inconsistencies. A librarian kills an assailant by striking him with her trusty copy of Little Women, and I’m the only one asking whether Louisa May Alcott would approve of blunt-force trauma. 

So, while others are talking about how the book made them feel, I’m trying to inject it with truth serum. The AI apparently frowned and asked me to locate “truth” in the definition of fiction.

Count 2: Unrealistic Expectations

I have a habit of treating sentimental fiction as if it were classical literature. I expect Nicholas Sparks to plot like George Eliot and can’t ignore the predictable tropes, archetypal characters, and derivative plots. The AI explained: “This is like going to a potluck, eating the mac and cheese, and announcing it lacks ‘textural ambition.’”

Count 3: Character Prosecution

When I decide a character is cardboard, I go nuts. Here come the adjectives: wooden, one-dimensional, emotionally avoidant, and apparently allergic to self-awareness. Meanwhile, someone across the room is quietly thinking, “I liked that character. Why is he cross-examining her?” The AI reminded me that book clubs are discussion groups, not criminal courts.

Count 4: Rewriting

It’s maddening when a novelist engages me for several days and then muffs the ending with something implausible or—worse, soft. It’s insulting when the author considers me either dense or lazy and adds three final chapters to tidily Hallmark all the loose ends. My granddaughters can’t even weasel that much sugar out of me. Well naturally, I begin proposing revisions.

Readers who loved the book feel like I’m rearranging their living room furniture without asking. The AI, growing bolder, demanded, “If you’re so good with a plot, where’s your opus?”

Count 5: The Comparisons

Every book I read reminds me of three others, a Bible story, and a Greek tragedy. Revenge? Any white whales around? Guilt? Feeling itchy under that scarlet letter? Suicide? Perhaps consult a train schedule? 

Apparently, many group members are not especially interested in a comparative literature discussion, particularly with someone without a literature degree. The AI explained that veteran book club members possess a wisdom I lack: good books don’t need defending, and Kleenex books eventually find the waste can on their own.

The verdict: guilty on all counts, and extremely guilty on some of them. But in my defense, I’m never mean or dismissive, I welcome disagreement, and I wouldn’t dream of demanding assent to my opinions. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s afternoon; I just can’t seem to stop noticing the scaffolding behind the scenery.

After reviewing all charges, I have concluded that my lack of book-club popularity is not a mystery.  It is a pattern—one I have lovingly cultivated over decades of reading, thinking, and, unfortunately, speaking.

But I’m not discouraged. Like every good book, every good book club needs a villain. Or at least a mildly overcaffeinated analyst who can be counted on to say, “Well, actually…”

And if that’s my role, I accept it. I only hope that if they ever take a vote, it isn’t unanimous.