Since the publication of The Garneau Block, I have been invited to a number of book clubs. It is contrary to the nature of the contemporary man to join a book club (why is that, by the way?) so I have only encountered women on these genial evenings. There is always red wine, which helps do away with the social discomfort that I sometimes inspire with my squirrel-like anxieties.

I always wear a suit, which is always too much. The host invites me in and I sit down in a comfortable chesterfield and smile. As we introduce ourselves, I investigate, by the tone and tenor of their voices, whether any of them disliked the novel. Women in book clubs always seem to be attractive and intelligent, so I worry about being caught checking them out (after two glasses of wine, my gaze tends to linger). And, of course, I worry about eating too much hummus and horrifying these lovely readers with my garlic breath.

At the end of the evening, when it is time to sign books, I inevitably forget someone’s name. There is no elegant way to rectify this situation, and I always feel like a boor. If the forgotten name is a variation on “Kirsten,” I can sometimes rescue myself by asking how to spell it. If the forgotten name is “Liz,” I only end up seeming impure of heart. It is best to admit one’s flaws at a book club meeting, unless one’s flaw happens to be staring at the line of a woman’s collarbone while she asks whether my book is autobiographical.

The Book of Stanley, which contains satirical elements about organized religion, will make for even more anxious book club meetings. I’m eager for my first invitation, so I can work on behaving myself.