Throw a Book Party So Fun, Your Friends Will Forget They’re Cultured

Book Party

So, you’ve decided to host a book party. Congrats! This isn’t your grandma’s library lecture—no shushing, no quizzes, and absolutely zero pressure to pretend you’ve read Ulysses. Let’s turn this into a raucous, cocktail-fueled celebration of stories, laughter, and ideally a few well-timed book sales. Here’s how to throw a bash that’s more “unhinged family reunion” than “stuffy literary salon.”

Step 1: Invite Everyone (Yes, Even That One Cousin)

Cast a net wider than your Wi-Fi password. Invite friends, coworkers, that neighbor who once borrowed your lawnmower and never returned it, and the randoms you only see at gas stations. Why? Because half your RSVPs will ghost last-minute — thanks, social anxiety! Pro tip: Promise cocktails, not commitment. Assure guests they don’t need to know the author, read the book, or have anything in common with other attendees—just show up ready to laugh or learn.

Bonus Hack: Beg, bribe, or guilt-trip everyone you know to host their own book party for you. It’s like a Tupperware party, but instead of plastic containers, you’re peddling dysfunctional family sagas and free therapy. (Proceeds may vary.)

Step 2: Math Is Your Frenemy

Invite 50 people to get 20. Invite 70 to get 40. It’s like Tinder, but with more prose and less existential dread. Set an end time to soothe introverts (“It’s only two hours—you can do this!”) Partner with a friend to double your guest list (and your wine stash).

Step 3: The Invite: Cocktails > Canapés

Your invite should scream “FUN” louder than a group chat after 10 p.m. Use phrases like:

- “Cocktails & Chaos with [Author Name]” (Booze sells books. Fact.)

- “No reading required. Just vibes.”*

- “Starts at 7 p.m. Author will speak at 8 p.m. (We’ll be drunk by 8:15.)”

Evites or Paperless Posts add accountability. Emails work too. Include a quirky book blurb:

“[Book Title] is a witty, dysfunctional romp that’ll make your family group chat look like a Hallmark card. Think Succession meets The Office… but with better outfits.”

Step 4: Structure? Barely.

- Hour 1: Mingling, cocktails, and questionable charcuterie boards.

- Hour 2: Author does a 20-minute stand-up routine (disguised as a “reading”).

- The Rest: More wine, book signings, and guests arguing about which character they’d date.

Food is optional. Go pot luck! Nothing bonds people like store-bought hummus and existential dread.

Step 5: Promote Like an Influencer (Minus the Filters)

- Photos: Use pics of the author looking mysterious or mid-laugh. Bonus points for throwback hairstyles.

- Adjectives: Witty. Raunchy. Heartfelt. Unputdownable. Sprinkle them like confetti.

- Links: Author’s website, a quirky YouTube video (“Watch them sing about their mom’s bad life choices!”), or a playlist of songs from the book’s era.

Final Tip: Embrace the Chaos

The best book parties are part comedy show, part therapy session. Guests will leave tipsy, clutching a novel they’ll pretend to read, and texting you, “When’s the next one?!” Mission accomplished.

Now go forth, pour the drinks, and let the literary shenanigans begin. Remember, every day is pub day. You can throw a book party whenever you want.

Got your own book party horror stories or genius hacks? Share ’em below. (We’re here for the drama.)

---

Pandemic Beginnings

By Liz Dubelman

In early March 2020, as COVID whispers morphed into a media shriek, Mary and Tom’s life began shrinking faster than a cheap cotton mask in a dryer. Mary’s phone buzzed like a deranged cicada, blaring alerts about face-touching (the new cardinal sin) and mask-hoarding (the new Black Friday). She scrubbed her hands several times a day, with the rigor of a Broadway understudy practicing for Cats—every 20-second wash a tragic jazz hands routine. Her anxiety multiplied like dandelions on espresso, blooming into a despair so thick she could’ve knitted it into a quarantine sweater.

Locked down with Tom—the man she’d married 29 years ago in a ceremony best described as “college graduation with cake”—they now starred in their own pandemic reboot of The Odd Couple, but with fewer laughs. Their downsized LA apartment (sunlit, chic, but roughly the length of a CVS receipt) became Mary’s canvas for Aix-en-Provence cosplay. She painted walls in hues so aggressively French they practically sighed “hon hon hon,” while Tom, ever the Twitterati, polished his “Team Good Guy” persona like a participation trophy (#SaveTheRedwoodsByRetweeting). Their marriage? A Groupon-tier commitment she’d impulse-bought in her 20s, back when love felt like a BOGO deal.

By 5 PM daily, Mary mixed cocktails strong enough to disinfect countertops while Tom monologued about federal forestry failures like a TED Talk auditioning for his next tweet. “Thousands of people a day are dying,” she’d deadpan, “but sure, let’s argue about who forgot to water the ficus.”

Their 30th anniversary arrived with the subtlety of a smoke alarm, upstaged by protests and a curfew stricter than Tom’s laundry schedule. Abandoning plans for a coastal drive, Mary spiked peach iced tea like a suburban moonshiner and dropped the D-bomb: “Divorce.” Tom’s tears flowed freer than his 401(k) during a market crash. He then distanced himself, stepping back across the room as if to create a safe zone.

“Is it because of the affair? Because that’s all over—well, at least I know who I am now,” he mumbled, clearly caught off-guard by his own admission.

And then, with the sudden ferocity of a dandelion set alight, Mary snapped, “Fuck you—who is she?”

Tom stuttered as if the question were utterly absurd. Tilting his head, he replied, “Oh Mary, I thought you knew. Not her. Not her. Him.”

Mary’s mind raced through her mental archives until it landed on Gerry—the only “him” who had ever shared Tom’s inner circle, and who had passed away a decade ago. She remembered Tom’s heartbreak during Gerry’s long decline, those nights spent together “to give his wife a break,” which once seemed touching but now reeked of betrayal.

“Gerry?” Mary gasped.

“I never loved anyone else except you and Gerry,” Tom insisted.

“And the children?” Mary prodded.

“Of course, I love the children.”

“No—do they know?”

“No, I wanted to tell them, but I figured that wouldn’t secure my claim to Father of the Year.”

“But Gerry’s wife knew?” Mary snapped.

“Of course she knew. I always thought you'd been aware,” Tom murmured. It was like a Hallmark movie gone all Brokeback Mountain.

Without a second thought, Mary grabbed the blue vase overflowing with morning glories and hurled it at Tom’s head, knocking him out cold. It was an act as shocking as it was unexpected—heartbreak now mingled with a surprising surge of self-assurance. At least now, the feeling of being only half-loved had a tangible explanation. Cautiously, she approached Tom’s motionless form, now a quiet tableau framed by scattered flowers, splotches of water, and broken pieces of vase.

Settling down on the black-and-white linoleum floor beside him, Mary clutched his hand and sighed in relief when she saw he was still breathing. A glance at his head revealed no alarming blood—a detail she took as a very good sign. As she pondered the reasons behind her decision to divorce and contemplated life in solitude, Tom stirred. In that charged moment, Mary made a silent deal with fate: if he woke up, she’d let the affair slip into oblivion, satisfied to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, they still had a few things to sort out. If not—well, c’est la vie.