I Only Wanted to Talk About My Book

A few months ago, a friend asked me to speak at a Jewish literary salon. Having just written a book about my conversion to Catholicism, I felt especially honored. How lovely that my friend had thought to ask me! What a beautiful opportunity to bridge two religions and cultures! More to the point, I'd been reading about the power of book groups as a marketing tool. Here, perhaps, was my chance—the beginning of my entrée into bestsellerdom.

With a view to the upcoming High Holy Days, the theme was self-reflection. For weeks I mulled over what I might say. “Read a little from your book,” my friend suggested, “then talk for a bit. It's very informal.” So I chose a chapter that I thought would give any self-reflective person food for thought. It was about how the opposite of holding onto control isn't letting go: it's participating in something greater than ourselves. It was about the small act of kindness, and how it might not change anyone else, but it changes us.

I spent the whole day of the salon picking out just the right outfit, looking forward to all the new book lovers I was going to meet and preparing my remarks. When I finished delivering them that night, I could hardly wait for the discussion to begin.

The first comment was from a blonde woman with a set face. “Mother Teresa wasn't helping the people in India,” she informed me. “She was doing it for herself.” I hadn't mentioned Mother Teresa, so I wasn't sure how to respond. “Well, I guess that is the point of self-reflection,” I offered, “to examine our motives.” Another voice piped up. “How can you believe all that dogma about... about—” “What of evil?” a man in the back cut in. “What do you have to say about that?” “Um, I'm against it?” I replied. I was starting to sweat.

It went on like that for a while and though the conversation eventually resumed a gentler course, I was shaken. I'd pictured heading up one big, happy, book-loving literary circle; instead, I'd barely averted tribal warfare. I'd imagined bringing people together with the words I'd so lovingly crafted; instead, it was as if my very person had bombed.

I laughed it off with my friend, but I was stung. That's the last literary salon I'll ever attend, I thought, and both times my friend asked me out for coffee afterward, I put him off. Then, several weeks later, I received an e-mail from a woman who'd participated that night. “I am truly sorry for that interchange,” she wrote. “I was embarrassed and upset by it. The salon was meant to be an inspiring exchange of ideas, not an attack on another's belief system. I did speak to my friends privately about it both that evening and again a couple of weeks after the event. In retrospect, I wish I had been more assertive during the exchange.

“You should know that many people have since told me how moved they were by your words and your openness—not an easy thing in a room full of strangers. I really do believe that generosity and compassion ultimately trump close-mindedness and rudeness and I only hope we can be better hosts in the future.”

My eyes welled with tears: religion means “to bind back together” and that's exactly what this woman's kind words had done. “Thanks,” I wrote back, “now there is a brave and generous heart.” Ever since, I've been reflecting that no matter who we are or what books we love, all we really want is to belong. That's why we read and why we write. Last night at a party, someone invited me to participate in another literary salon. “Count me in,” I replied. “Can't wait.”