Twice a week all Spring, I’ve been in living rooms from Oregon to New York.
Sometimes I’m physically in the room with a dozen female strangers; sometimes I’m beamed in via Skype.
Most of them have read my book and all of us have a glass of something in our hands.
I break the ice by reading passages I hope their book club will enjoy.
Sometimes I read the right stories.
Sometimes I don’t.
But after talking love, loss, books and Pilates for an hour (or three), the definitions of reader and author become amorphous.
There’s nothing they’re afraid to ask.
Nothing I’m afraid to answer.
We take turns showing and telling.
Crying and laughing.
And by the end of every book club, I’ve met women I’d like to know better and others who it seems I already do.