I’ve always wanted to be a reader. Like a real reader. Not just short Mitch Albom books, but real grown up books. Books that are longer than 150 pages and don’t have pictures. I always imagine myself nurturing my brain and expanding my vocabulary. It’sd be nice to start a sentence with “I read this book,” once in a while instead of “I saw this show the other day,” too. But no matter how much reading I manage to sneak in, I still feel like I’m a wannabe reader. So in hopes to change that, my friend and I started a book club. We alternate book picks to help us broaden our horizons in what we read. She is always on the search for the perfect love story (which she is failing miserably), and I usually pick depressing non-fiction (which I am winning at). It’s nice to be pushed out of our comfort zones.
The only rule we have is that we remain two members. She’s been in a book club before and didn’t like waiting so long for her pick. Because of this, she claims we are “book buddies.” I let her call us that, but I haven’t adopted that term myself. I think we are more like “literary losers.” If you continue reading you’ll see why.