a call to the bookish.

“Join my book club!” I whisper in the ear of an unsuspecting Barnes and Noble shopper. She jumps and drops the book she was re-shelving. I plead, “Oh, do join, won’t you?” while rocking on the balls of my feet, clutching a paperback to my chest. She politely shakes her head and backs into the Summer Reading display. Side-steps to the aisle, still shaking her head and avoiding eye contact. I persist. “What if I bake cookies?” She murmurs something about needing to meet a friend and sprints toward the check-out counter. “CHOCOLATE CHIP!” I shout, waving Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake above my head like a billboard-sized bribery check. “EXTRA CHIPS! CHOCOLATE!”

Luckily, this scene is entirely hypothetical—I just don’t see it going over well. Something about the Betty Crocker Turned B&N Stalker approach seems, oh, I don’t know...daunting? Desperate? Therapy-worthy?

But I really do want to join or start a book club. Already finished my first summer read (see: bribery check reference above). Essays by a NYC twentysomething with a stash of plastic ponies and mad cynicism skills? Yes, please! And tonight I watched The Jane Austen Book Club with my dog and leftover Chinese, which naturally reminded me that a) I am really cool, and that b) I absolutely must circle-up with fellow literature lovers this summer. Fiction or non-fiction, classic or contemporary—I’ll read it with you.

If it helps, I really will bake you cookies.