August Fiction Selection

The first few months of the year got off to a rough start for several of our members and, due to these unfortunate events, we ended up bumping our scheduled January meeting to April. With the lengthy hiatus, our group enjoyed a long overdue catch up session to discuss our current life statuses and latest book. We had a lovely time visiting, and enjoyed a delicious homemade loaf of bread with an enormous charcuterie board spread made by our fabulous hostess. We were also gifted individual book-shaped pencil holders with clever sayings uniquely suitable to each member! 

For this session, we moved away from our normal routine a bit with a new interactive method for discussion questions and a fun activity about our reading personalities. We also voted to read only fiction titles for the foreseeable future (to help us all escape the dreary state of the world we have all found ourselves in). It was a terrific meeting all around. 

Our selection for our next meeting in August will be:

 Storm Front by Jim Butcher

Excerpt from the author's page:

"The mailman walked towards my office door, half an hour earlier than usual. He didn’t sound right. His footsteps fell more heavily, jauntily, and he whistled. A new guy. He whistled his way to my office door and then fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed.

Then he knocked.

I winced. My mail comes through the mail slot unless it’s registered. I get a really limited selection of registered mail, and it’s never good news. I got up out of my office chair and opened the door.

The new mailman looked like a basketball with arms and legs and a sunburned, balding head, and he stood chuckling and reading the sign on the door glass. He glanced at me and hooked a thumb towards the office glass. “You’re kidding, right?”

I read the sign (people change it occasionally), and shook my head. “No, I’m serious. Can I have my mail, please.”

“So, uh. Like parties, shows, stuff like that?” He looked past me, as though he expected to see a white tiger, or possibly some skimpily clad assistants prancing around my one-room office.

I sighed, not in the mood to get mocked again, and reached for the mail he held in his hand. “No, not like that. I don’t do parties.”

He held on to it, his head tilted curiously. “So what? Some kinda fortuneteller? Cards and crystal balls and things?”

“No,” I told him. “I’m not a psychic.” I tugged at the mail.

He held onto it. “What are you, then?”

“What’s the sign on the door say?”

“It says ‘Harry Dresden. Wizard.'”

“That’s me,” I confirmed.

“An actual wizard?” he asked, grinning, as though I should let him in on the joke. “Spells and potions? Demons and incantations? Subtle and quick to anger?”

“Not so subtle.” I jerked the mail out of his hand, and looked pointedly at his clipboard. “Can I sign for my mail please.”

The new mailman’s grin vanished, replaced with a scowl. He passed over the clipboard to let me sign for the mail (another late notice from my landlord), and said, “You’re a nut. That’s what you are.” He took his clipboard back and said, “You have a nice day, sir.”

I watched him go.

“Typical,” I muttered, and shut the door.

My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. I’m a wizard. I work out of an office in midtown Chicago. As far as I know, I’m the only openly practicing professional wizard in the country. You can find me in the yellow pages, under ‘Wizards’. Believe it or not, I’m the only one there."