I started a book club and we don’t read books. We love novels – we are novelists, as well as nonfiction writers, academics and editors; voracious readers, all. But we’ve dragged ourselves through enough boozy, emotional “I hated it/I didn’t read it/well, I loved it” book clubs to run screaming.
Now we gather at a hippy pub clutching a slim volume or tapping on a link. One published short story, one hour, once a month (or so). Arrive, order chips and beer, rip through the story, done. Raymond Carver said of the form: “Get in, get out. Don’t linger. Go on.” We’re sprinters. And after each session I feel buzzed, already looking forward to the next race.
