24-Hour Bookclub: The End
Back in 2012, I started 24-Hour Bookclub with Max because reading a book in a day and talking about it on the internet was about the best fun I’d ever had. Six book selections and several years later, it’s still hard to imagine anything more joyful. I’ve loved our occasional reading flashmob and all the people I’ve met through it. Even so, I’ve decided that it’s time to say goodbye to 24-Hour Bookclub. I’m writing this post as an epilogue to the decision to close this chapter of my life and as a testament to everything good that came of the decision to open it in the first place.
Between October 2012 and June 2014, members of 24-Hour Bookclub devoted six days to reading six books:
- October 6, 2012: Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore, by Robin Sloan
- January 6, 2013: Both Flesh and Not, by David Foster Wallace
- May 5, 2013: The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, by Aimee Bender
- June 9, 2013: These Days, by Jack Cheng
- October 20, 2013: The Boy Kings, by Kate Losse
- June 7, 2014: The Hotel Eden, by Ron Carlson
Across those six days, I’d estimate that 100 different people read at least one of the books in a single 24-hour stretch, writing about 1,000 tweets in the process. Over 1,000 people followed @24hourbookclub on Twitter; over 300 joined the mailing list. 24-Hour Bookclub played a role in connecting Lisa with her dream job, and sparked more than a few friendships. And at one point, 24-Hour Bookclub even made an appearance in WIRED Magazine — in print!
But metrics and milestones are only a fraction of the story. What mattered most to me about 24-Hour Bookclub were the moments we got to experience together.
Moments
For Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore, some friends got together in Dolores Park to read together. Meanwhile, Ed and I tweeted exactly the same thing at exactly the same time:
After it was all over, I wrote about the jack-o’-lantern chocolates that had sustained me and the practicalities of reading Twitter and a book in parallel:
I poked my head up every couple of chapters to check Twitter, reply to people, retweet fun thoughts. My double bed (my favored reading place, aka the only comfortable surface in my dorm room) became command central: computer at my side, phone blinking with Twitter notifications, book nestled in the folds of the comforter whenever I had to set it down.
For Both Flesh and Not, one club member in New Zealand stepped up as our “International Date Line start gun guy,” since he couldn’t join the reading that time. Ed, a linguist and a tennis fan, had somehow never read anything by David Foster Wallace before, and wrote about the experience. A group of us reflected on the essays over on Branch. (Miss you, Branch.) This was also how I first met Libby, who was working on Branch at the time, and who has since become a dear friend of mine.
The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake was our first reading led by Elaine, who managed the conversation with such grace that I later asked her to join us as a third full organizer. Sara marked the occasion not with lemon cake, but with scones and clotted cream. Later, Laurel found a mysterious note in her library copy.
For These Days, we three organizers spent an afternoon reading together in person at the Chicago Botanic Garden:
At the end of the day, the author, Jack Cheng, joined readers for a Q&A, and Sara recorded some reflections.
For The Boy Kings, a few of us got together in Berlin to read together in person. Kate Losse also agreed to join us for a video Q&A. This was a really big deal to me, because while I’d known Jack for years before asking him if he’d be willing to do the Q&A, I didn’t know Kate at all. That is, until the fateful Q&A, during which we got along so well that we ended up grabbing dinner the next time I was in San Francisco.
For The Hotel Eden, Anastasia took to the beach and Ron Carlson was kind enough to join us for a written interview facilitated by Elaine, which included this wonderful moment:
@PhatypusComics asked: How do you personally know when you’re done revising a page/story?
My stories have all (100 percent of them) surprised me, so the endings have been surprises too, and somewhat mystifying. When I wrote the last line of “Zanduce” it felt like I’d stuck the landing in a gymnastics meet.
Other times, you circle the mystery without answering it, move the needle above 89 to 90 — or so you think — and call it done. It goes in a drawer until all of the affection subsides and you can design an ending. No story comes in at 99 or 100. We’re not going to live and die by a single story, but by the call of the next one.
Something like that.
Beyond individual moments, what’s stuck with me most is the warmth of return. Reading for the sake of reading — irresponsibly, with abandon and devotion — reconnects us with our origin stories. Through participating in 24-Hour Bookclub, Jack, Sara, and Lisa have all noticed the same thing. Lisa’s observation rings especially true to me:
It’s hard sometimes to stand on the other side of a craft you’ve known and loved, in all of its complexity, and to stop yourself from peeking at the wizard behind the curtain — to be a dancer in the audience, a writer reading, or a photographer taking a turn in front of the lens. It’s worth it, though, I think, to take moments away from the how of it all and return to the beginning of wonder.
A return to the beginning of wonder. That’s the space we held together.
The End
October, January, May, June, October, June: 24-Hour Bookclub was always occasional. Once I realized recently that an occasion hadn’t arisen in a while, I started thinking about what it would mean to close down 24-Hour Bookclub officially. Could I let go of the promise to do it again?
Not long after I started 24-Hour Bookclub, I started thinking deeply about the role of projects in my life. Those reflections — set in motion by a talk my friend Christina gave at Brio in April 2013 — snowballed into an essay titled “No More Forever Projects,” originally published on The Pastry Box in March 2014. In it, I came to some conclusions about endings:
My friend Jamie Wilkinson once told me about a decision he’d made. No more forever projects, he said. From now on, every project is one-time-only. Treat beginnings like endings: celebrate them, document them, let someone else pick up where you leave off. If the project’s worth repeating, there’s nothing to say you can’t still be the standard-bearer. But at least it’s a choice. By ending well, you give yourself the freedom to begin again.
But endings are hard to bring about. While my perspective shifted over the course of 2014, there were precious few doors that I actually closed. In December 2014, I wrote a follow-up essay titled “Letting Go”:
This is what I need to do next: hold every project, every object, every belief in my hands — one after another — and ask, does this stand for joy, obligation, or fear? And if it’s time to let go, I will.
While 24-Hour Bookclub once stood for joy, and while the memories still do, I have to admit that since the last reading in June 2014, I’ve felt more obligation than anticipation. It’s time to let go; I will. By really and truly ending, I hope to celebrate everything we built together while opening up space for whatever may be next.
Epilogue
Over the years, people have occasionally asked me about turning 24-Hour Bookclub into a platform — an event pattern that anyone could run with, combined with a clearinghouse for discovering reading flashmobs you might want to join. Historically, I’ve held off; part of me was interested in preserving the oneness of the 24-Hour Bookclub experience, while the other part of me just thought it sounded like a lot of work to open it up. Now that I’m closing the door on my involvement, though, I’d like to fulfill the promise of “No More Forever Projects” and give others a chance to pick up where I’m leaving off.
24-Hour Bookclub is a lot of things: a website, a Twitter account, a hashtag, an idea. My plan is for the website and the Twitter account to remain as archives, but the hashtag and the idea are fair game to carry forward. To support anyone who’d like to give the idea a try, I’m making our 24-Hour Bookclub handbook public. This post full of tips for readers could also prove useful.
24-Hour Bookclub is one of my favorite things I’ve ever done. As I once wrote:
Imagine a giant, quiet library full of people who are all on the same page of the same book at the same time. The silence is punctuated only by shouts of glee, echoed by others as they reach the same point in turn. 24-Hour Bookclub is like that.
If you’ve ever read a book because of 24-Hour Bookclub: thank you. Your glee and dedication made it all worthwhile. My deepest thanks to Max and Elaine for bringing 24-Hour Bookclub to life in the first place, and for supporting me in this decision. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from 24-Hour Bookclub, it’s that the warmth of return is within reach for all of us.
