I didn’t mean to become a serial killer. I’m sure everyone says that, but I really mean it. I always set out with the best of intentions, but one day I woke up and saw the trail of carnage I’d left in my wake.

Yes, I am a book club killer. 

I can’t count how many book clubs I’ve joined over the years. Each time, I eagerly jump in, promising myself that this time will be different. And then, like clockwork, I turn into the problem child. Here’s the thing about book clubs: the members have to actually, you know, read the books. And time and time again I just… don’t. Like going to the gym, book club becomes an irritating responsibility that I chafe against. 

But I’m proud to say I refused to learn my lesson. Three months ago, I launched a book club for my colleagues here at Pix. And somehow, even with me at the helm, it’s alive and kicking.

Now, three months is hardly a landmark achievement. (I will, however, graciously accept any trophies people feel compelled to send my way.) But given my long and distinguished history of book-club-icide, it feels significant. I’m not ready to declare the curse broken just yet, but I’m cautiously optimistic, and I want to share that optimism with you.

Today’s Worth the Read is all about book clubs: why they matter, why I think you should start one at work, and the lessons I’ve learned from years of discovering exactly what kills them—and three months of finding a few things that give them life.