The Jane Austen Book Club

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My mom used to read to me. She read to me when I was in high school and had so much homework and so many goddamn class projects and track or cross-country practice every day that I’d plain and simply run out of time. I’m the world’s slowest reader, so reading assignments killed me. I’m about four times slower than your average reader. That’s a guesstimate.

So, Mom would read one of my reading assignments out loud, and I would work on another project that didn't require my undivided attention. This is called multitasking. Sooner or later, though, my mind would start to wonder. I’d get caught up in something Mom had read, plucking it apart until my brain was running loose on all kinds of crazy tangents. I’d be in a totally different place, then––Snap! I'd realize I hadn’t listened to a thing she’d said for a significant amount of time. And then I'd feel so sad and guilty, for not listening to her.

Her voice was talking, and I wasn’t listening. She was spending her time, and I was wasting it. Spacing out. She thought I was listening. And I wasn't.
Ick!
That's just a terrible feeling. Makes me sick to think about. And then because I wasn't listening, I would focus on trying to listen, and then I’d get distracted even more. And then feel even more worse. Ahh!

This past summer, Mom and I decided to read a book together. She would read out loud, and I would listen. The book was called 19 Minutes by Jodi Picoult; Mom really likes her books. We got through a few chapters, but things got too busy, and needless to say, we didn't finish it. Together that is. She finished it on her own. And now I only wish I would’ve been there reading it with her. If only just to hear the sound of her voice.

Well, I'll read it on my own eventually. At Ashley pace.

At this very moment, I’m watching a movie called The Jane Austen Book Club. Incidentally, it’s poking every sore spot inside of me. Not necessarily a bad thing, but conspicuously apparent.

One character, a young woman, is in a deteriorating marriage. We learn that her husband feels like she wants him to be something he’s not (what’s new?). Suddenly, her mom, with whom she shares a terrible relationship, dies. She's a wreck. Her husband doesn't know what to do. And then, miraculously, this book club rescues them. They make amends. Then they get pregnant. Everyone lives happily ever after. Well, Thank You, Jane Austen!

The movie––cheesy––I know. But very real. And actually pretty good. Variations of this situation exist in so many people’s lives.

Perhaps the world just needs more book clubs?