I’m writing from my first-ever book club.

Let me clarify: I’ve attended book clubs. I’ve been lucky enough to have book clubs elect to read my novels and then invite me to discuss them. But I’ve never been a part of a book club.

Until now.

It all started with a call from Johnny Brazil. Johnny runs Jackalope Cycling, Russellville’s premier bike shop. Johnny and I graduated from high school together. We didn’t run in the same circles, but hang around a small town long enough, and all circles eventually overlap.

That overlap happened earlier this year when my wife got me a mountain bike for my birthday. That bike led me back to Johnny. I had questions about cornering, braking, and maintenance, and Johnny had questions about books.

I must give credit where credit is due: the club was his idea.

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Johnny wanted a place where guys could discuss what they'd been reading and drink a few brews. I had my doubts. I have enough trouble getting English majors to read, much less a bunch of dads with wives and kids and full-time jobs.

Johnny didn't budge. He was adamant that this was an idea worth pursuing. So we assembled a crew. We sent out texts. Johnny assigned our first book, The Alchemist, by Paul Coelho, and gave everyone a month to complete the thin, classic novel.

We met at Point Remove Brewery, a refurbished fire station in downtown Russellville. It was an eclectic group: Johnny and I, plus two nuclear engineers, one swim coach/teacher, one salesman, one retiree, and the manager of the brewery.

Out of all those dudes, I was the only one who didn’t finish the stinking book. Me! The author! The novelist! I had my reasons, excuses I won’t get into here, but it was embarrassing, so much so, I almost didn’t go.

Almost.

In the end, I went and confessed, first thing, to only making it halfway through the book. Much to my surprise, nobody gave me a hard time. No judgements were cast. And what followed was an experience I didn’t think was possible:

Eight dudes sat around and discussed a book. I can count on one hand all the guys I’ve ever met at book clubs. It’s an often-shared statistic in the publishing industry that guys don’t read, and if they do, they don’t read novels.

There’s some speculation as to why this is the case, and the number one reason I’ve heard is that men have trouble relaxing. Everything they do must be for a reason, an attempt to improve themselves. If men do read, then they’re much more likely to read history, biography, or self-help books.

As I sat and listened to these guys discuss a 38-year-old novel, I kept thinking about that statistic. I kept thinking about how numbers can say one thing and life can say something else. Right when you think you have people figured out, they surprise you.

That’s why we read books, isn’t it? To see ourselves reflected on the page, to take a trial run in someone else’s shoes. To simply escape. Yes, there’s that too.

There’s no right or wrong reason to read, but you will be better off if you do. Take it from the only guy at the book club who didn’t finish the book.

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