I know, I know—we were in the middle of a series of posts about Émile Zola’s The Ladies’ Paradise, but I’d like to hit pause on that to share some exciting news with you all: I have acquired my first byline! So, apologies, but you will have to live in suspense as regards the nineteenth-century novel I was previewing—it’s a lot to ask, but I’m confident that you will find the strength to abide the delay—as I tell you about something really cool called Silent Book Club.

Unlike traditional book clubs, Silent Book Club has no assigned reading. You don’t have to read what other people are reading—although you can, if you want to. Like traditional book clubs, Silent Book Club brings book lovers together to talk about books and interesting ideas, make new friends, and hang out with old friends.

What do people do at a Silent Book Club meeting? Well, first, we bring whatever book we’re reading to the venue, and we order a drink; meetings are often held at places like bars, wine bars, breweries, and the like (though, of course, there’s no obligation to drink alcohol, and people order what they please). Then, we alternate between chatting informally about books and anything else we feel like yammering about, and reading in friendly silence.

I first heard of Silent Book Club through an article in Poets & Writers magazine. Upon learning that the nearest club was farther from my home than I wanted to travel, I started my own local club. This was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I discovered that Silent Book Club is a great way to meet interesting, smart, and fun people. It’s also a great way to get some reading done.

I have been hosting Silent Book Club meetings for two years now, and our club has recently expanded from offering meetings every other week to offering meetings most weeks, at two different times and days so more people can participate. We also recently took a “field trip” to a bookstore / wine bar in a nearby town, which was great fun.

But back to my exciting news—I was invited to write a blog post for the Silent Book Club website, and it is now live! I invite you to read my article New Year’s Book Solutions, which is about tips for making time for reading. If you’ve ever struggled to find the time to read, or if you, like me, have made a New Year’s resolution to read books, you may find something useful in there. Click here to read the article!

I want to thank you all for reading my writing—it means a lot to me. I hope it helps you in some way. Our regularly scheduled programming will resume on Wednesday. Until then, stay safe, stay warm, and keep on reading, folks.

The author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston could not find a publisher for her book Barracoon that did not want her to make extensive changes to the manuscript (as I mentioned in my last blog post), and so her book was not released until 50+ years after her death, 80+ years after it was written.

The cause of the disagreement between Hurston and the publisher was that Hurston had written the story of Cudjo/Kossula in dialect. That is, she had transcribed his words as he spoke them (as an anthropologist concerned with preserving the speaker’s voice), instead of “translating” his words to “proper” English (as an author concerned with reaching a wide audience). The former style is more accurate; the latter style is easier to read.

I remember reading Huckleberry Finn for the first time—as a former high school English teacher, I have read it many times—and experiencing confusion and frustration when encountering Mark Twain’s rendering of the character Jim’s speech. I must have been halfway through the book before it finally dawned on me that chile meant “child” pronounced without the “d” sound. I kept reading it as “chili” (meat and beans in a bowl) or “chili” (a hot pepper) or “Chile” (the country) . . . none of which, needless to say, made any sense.

When I read Barracoon, I had no trouble with Hurston’s rendering of Cudjo/Kossula’s speech. I very much enjoyed reading the story in dialect, and I concur with her instincts to tell his story that way.* Then again, I am an experienced reader with two degrees in English. I wonder how well I would have been able to follow the story had I read it in my teens, or not pursued English degrees.

I am curious what you think about the following passage. Here Cudjo/Kossula describes his life as a 19-year-old, just before his town was raided and he was captured:

“I stand round de place where de chief talk wid de wise men. I hope dey see Cudjo and think he a grown man. Maybe dey call me to de council. De fathers doan never call me but I likee very much to be dere and lissen when dey talk. . . . I likee go in de market place too and see de pretty gals wid de gold bracelets on de arm from de hand to de elbow. Oh, dey look very fine to Cudjo when dey walkee dey sling de arm so and de bracelet ring. I lak hear dat—it sound so pretty.”

How easy or difficult did you think that passage was to read? What do you think about books that make extensive use of dialect?

*In full disclosure, I made a similar decision when writing my unpublished novel The Water-Creatures . . . and may well face the same consequences as Hurston . . . if not worse.

I made it to the top! Wow! Look at this lovely vista stretched out before me. The water, the trees, the distant towns, the sky . . . every splash of color is comfortable, serene, and in its rightful place. Ah, what a landscape! What a view!

Less metaphorically speaking, I just finished a book. I wrote and wrote, until I found nothing more to write. And then I edited and edited, until I found nothing more to edit. I’ve gone as far as I can go on my own. It’s done! I feel so free!

But, oh. I can’t stay up here forever. I’ll relish the scene for a while, but at some point I will need to move on. It’s lovely up here, but inertness is not for me. I see some intriguing peaks out there in the distance. Which one shall I climb up next?

What are you working on now? And what’s up next?