I’ve only read two books by Chimamada Ngozi Adichie: Americanah and Half of a Yellow Sun. I read Americanah because that was the choice my book club had made. I read Half of a Yellow Sun because Adichie is now one of my favorite writers. The two books I’ve read are hard to describe: in Americanah the Nigerian protagonist goes to school in America and returns to Nigeria. She has a number of relationships. In Half of a Yellow Sun, the book is mostly about two sisters and their relationships with men and other surrounding people in Nigeria during the 1960s. Continue reading →
I finally joined a book club. Or rather, I told myself, “I’ll read the book they’re reading and attend the first meeting and see how it goes.” I’ve always been a bit skeptical about book clubs. I’ve been asked to join more than one but most of them never truly existed. They were proposed in theory but no one took the initiative to start them. Skepticism arose mostly because I’m a solitary creature and I feared having to read something I didn’t want to, and so reading would turn into a task, something I had to do. I read more than most people I know. I’m not bragging; far from it. It’s like bragging: I spend more time alone ignoring other people with my cat on my lap drinking coffee in my pajamas indoors not interacting living in someone else’s world and not mine. That is my mindset: I am able to go places I never could experience and I usually go alone. There are the handful of books my other friends have read but usually we read them at separate times or different periods in our lives: Zadie Smith, Anne Rice, J. K. Rowling, Tom Robbins, Bukowski, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Joan Didion. And having that shared reading history allowed us to become closer without having to share so much. Realizing we have the common ground of core writers helped shape our friendships.