I gave my notice Saturday I was leaving the book club. At a friend’s invitation, I agreed last summer to be a member, which is unusual, because I haven’t been a part a group since I was a Girl Scout, and that stint lasted one year.

Of course, as a journalist I don’t join any groups. It’s that objectivity part of the job. My theory: as soon as you join a group, you either find out something bad worth reporting or members want special treatment.

I know the book club didn’t expect special treatment and I certainly didn’t find any corruption worth reporting. The club doesn’t even have a name.

Book club nights, the first Wednesday of the month, were enjoyable. The group, mostly women, met at a neutral site. The person who chose the book brought appropriate food and wine. People listened when others spoke. The only time things got a little tense — by book club standards — was the night we discussed Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy.

My reason for leaving? Between my job and my own writing, I don’t have the time to read the selected books. They were well-known books. They just weren’t the ones I would choose to read — and I read a lot on my own. The books chosen by the club tended to be on the bleak side. And some of them were dreadfully long. Or, British.

So I quit and I feel okay about it. I lasted less time in the book club than I did with the Girls Scouts. Oh, well.