I just got back from dropping AJ at preschool. He was off all last week and was chomping at the bit to go back. He woke up on Sunday and declared �I�m going to school today.� Enough of this vacation, business. Let�s get back to some serious play. We had a hard time explaining to him that school was closed. Today, we arrived a little early and his classroom was not yet open. After spending a couple of minutes with his nose pressed against the window, we walked down the hall to inspect the Christmas decorations which had grown on every available surface in his absence. He stopped to touch every bulb on the artificial tree that flashed lazily in alarming colors. When we turned back, he saw from halfway down the hall that the door was open, let out a gleeful yelp, and sprinted all the way inside with the speed of a young Jesse Owens.

His classroom, too, had been transformed. The story table had been wrapped in cardboard to look like a fireplace, complete with stockings and more Christmas lights. He and his little friend Steven were still examining all of the lightbulbs when I left with barely a dismissive wave of the hand from AJ.

I, too, am looking forward to my day. Not only do I get a little thinking time this morning, but I�m heading downtown this evening for a little shopping and dinner and wine with my book group. We�re discussing J.M. Coetzee�s The Master of Petersburg, a fictional account of the life of Dostoevsky. I haven�t actually gotten very far with this book, as I�ve been swamped with diss reading, but it�s a slender volume that I�m hoping I can polish off on the train ride in. Coetzee is a lovely writer, but so dispassionate that I sometimes have trouble connecting with his subject. But so far, this book is working for me. Its style seems wholly appropriate to its subject. And then of course there is my love affair with Dostoevsky � I didn�t need a lot to be convinced about this one.

I found myself wondering how one decides to write a fictional version of something true. Often it seems that an author is trying to write a history, but is too lazy to do the research or wants to tell it like a story. This is not at all like that. The fact that the main character was a real person seems wholly incidental, although I would be surprised to find that to be true. I haven�t yet read enough to comment intelligently, so I withhold further discussion until I�ve finished it.

My book group is one of the few social things I�ve held onto from my urban existence. The group has been going for over twenty years, but I�ve only been a member for seven or so. My membership seemed inevitable, as it was eventually discovered that I knew three of its members (the membership tends to hover around 12-14; most are long term. Changes occur when people move in or out of the area) from different situations. One was a good friend with whom I often discussed the books independently of the group and I eventually joined officially.

The group started as a collection of writers of all types � fiction-writers, poets, journalists, commercial writers, academics. It is more varied now, but writing is still something most of us have in common. We are all female and there has never been a question of men joining. In fact, a rival bookgroup was started by husbands and boyfriends and a few others because they felt they were missing out. A few of our members feel very competitive with the male group, often accusing our group of not reading books that are as serious (by which they mean we are reading new works by female writers instead of classic tomes). In actuality, over time our reading list has covered a wide swath of ground. New fiction by women writers is a definite trend, as is writing by Asian writers. But classics have been included, as have works of poetry and non-fiction.

The age range of the group spans close to 30 years (although those on the upper end of the spectrum hide it extremely well). We have been single, engaged, married (both secretly and lavishly), widowed, divorced. We have been pregnant, had children, seen them grow and graduate from college. We have many children and few. We have been unable to have children and have also chosen not to. We live alone, with small families and with large families. We work, we go to school, we volunteer, we party. We are very accomplished. We own our own businesses, publish widely in all kinds of situations, win awards and fellowships, have existential crises, change jobs and careers. We are writers, teachers, attorneys and we administrate organizations that are trying to improve life in our communities for the better. We have traveled around the world numerous times and all desire to travel more. We are all ambitious about our own projects. We are competitive, both in our own arenas and with each other. We are all bossy. We all love books. And wine. And each other, even as we squabble and complain about each other like siblings.

This group has offered me numerous models of femininity. Different ways of being a wife and mother, roles that I did not naturally fall into, roles I resisted at the start. They have given me inspiration to carve out the kind of life I want to have, not to simply fall into the patterns that seem easiest.

If you ask anyone in the group why they go month after month, I don�t think anyone�s first response would be �to discuss the books.� Our discussions are often interesting, but they are rarely the majority of conversation at a meeting. Food, children, our lives � those usually take precedence. So does the drinking of wine in large quantities. There are a few discussions that have stood out. The discussion of Mrs. Dalloway and The Hours was one. Another was the discussion of The Wild Swans. Good discussions are not necessarily about the best books (although I�d probably put The Hours/Mrs. Dallloway in that category). Often they are about the books we love to hate. Better yet are the ones that are somewhere in the middle, where we can really argue. But the argument doesn�t get really serious until we start discussing what to read next. Every now and then someone will suggest that the person hosting picks the book, as many other groups do. But that would remove my favorite part of the evening.

As in any family, we all have our roles. There is one who is responsible for keeping the group in line, dinging her glass to start the discussion, policing when the group disintegrates into multiple simultaneous conversations. There are those who are expected to introduce scholarly lines of inquiry, those that bring up sex, those that speak from the heart, those who are naturally wise. There are some, different for each of us, who will never choose a book that you will like. There are others who will always like the same books you do.

Perhaps it is because I have no sisters, nor any close female family. These women challenge me, inspire me, and drive me crazy. I can�t imagine life without them.

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