Last night, I went to a book club meeting at a bookstore in Greensboro. One of the participants loathed the book. “Full disclosure, I’m a free lance writer.” and she tore it apart.

When it was my turn to give any input, I said “I thought it was fun. It was a delightfully entertaining way to get through tedious work and yard work. I wasn’t looking for it to be great literature.”

When I was in high school and in my very early 20s, I was active in our local little theater. I worked on the stage crew, did props, built sets and performed some. It was great fun and I enjoyed the community.

One evening when I was between shows, I went to a performance at another theater. About 2/3 of the way through the first act, I realized that I was watching the stage management, not getting lost in the story.

I quit working on any plays after that. I didn’t want my knowledge of how flies work and costume changes are managed to take me out of the story any more.

I think the book club woman’s work has taken away her ability to just let the story flow over and into her. I think she has gotten distracted by the rigging and the lights.

(For the record, the book was Six Wakes by Mur Lafferty, a locked room, science fiction murder mystery.)