Should Writers Attend a Book Group that’s Discussing their Own Book?

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From Women Writers, Women[s] Books:

On a warm September night, in an English town, a writer steps into a room. Though she has been in this pleasant room before, the writer’s breath comes fast. Faces twist towards her, hard to read. What will happen in the next two hours is out of her control.

That writer, you may guess, is me. Twice in recent weeks, I’ve had the privilege of listening as a book group discusses The Truth Has Arms and Legs, my debut collection of short stories, published by Fly On The Wall Press. In that time, I’ve been delighted, moved – and pummelled. Book groups, I’ve discovered, are not cosy places; or not, at least, for authors. Any writer seeking ego-boosting flattery has come to the wrong place.

Don’t get me wrong: having belonged to one myself for over twenty years, I hold book groups in the highest possible esteem. Where else can women (let’s be honest – it’s mainly women) meet to drink wine (let’s be honest – there should be wine) and swap frank views on literature, life and all things in between?

In the days before my first book group appearance, I felt some trepidation. What if its members did not care for my short stories? To stumble on a one-star review in print can be painful. How much worse, to hear one delivered face-to-face.

Still, I reassured myself, reviews for my collection so far had been favourable. The chance to hear what readers thought, at first hand, was too good to pass up. A friend within the group had been generous to invite me. Surely nothing would go wrong.

At first, nothing did. The responses to my stories were pertinent and thoughtful. And then, as I relaxed, the mood began to change. “Oh – that story – no, no, no,” someone said, shaking her head. “And why did you make that other one so sad?” asked someone else (of a story I’d intended to be funny). A third rebuked me for a detail that (when I checked later) was not written on the page at all.

Before long I was reeling, punch-drunk like a boxer in a ring. Damp-palmed, I parried what seemed like raining blows. But no sooner had I dragged myself upright than another fierce left hook would send me spinning to the ropes.

Self-doubt – which every writer carries deep within their soul – began to surface. What monster of a book had I written? What monster of a person must I be myself?

And then, the way sunshine is restored by the passing of a cloud, positivity returned. Yes, the group agreed, they had very much enjoyed my book. Yes, they would love to read whatever I wrote next. I smiled, a little wanly, and thanked them for inviting me along.

Of course, I should have been prepared. As writers, we know that the words we supply are only half the story. What readers add as they read – their own preoccupations, experiences and desires – completes the process that we have just begun.

Knowing this, intellectually, is one thing. Seeing it play out before you is quite another. That is why, I suggest, authors invited to attend a book group should approach with care. Book groups exist, quite rightly, to serve the needs of readers. The needs of readers and writers do not totally align.

So it is that, on this warm September evening as I arrive at another book group, my mood is less carefree than before. Most likely, all will be well. Yet, like a child returning to the dentist, I cannot shake the knowledge that what happens next may hurt.

As before, the members of the group are talking merrily – but not about my book. They are speaking of their jobs, lives, children, the things old friends share when they regather. At first this does not bother me. I wait, and glug a glass of wine, and wait some more. Countless times, in my own book group, we have done the same. But, attending as the writer, this feels different. Even – as more minutes pass – perturbing. Perhaps the ladies assembled in the room have not liked my stories. Perhaps they would rather speak of other things all night, than say this sad fact to my face. Perhaps – even worse – they have not read the book.

At a point when I am certain my stories are of less interest than the dust upon their shoes, the host calls the group to order. A glow of attention settles on my book. Each person tells me what they think.

“The characters stay with you,” a woman says, beside me.

“It’s not like a novel, where you keep forgetting what you’ve read,” puts in another. “I kept thinking what would happen, after the story’s over.”

From Women Writers, Women[s] Books