There’s a certain level of consternation involved with attending a book club that has had this author decline many an evening invitation.

Perhaps it’s the imposter syndrome that comes with judging another writer, or the ceaseless anxiety over finishing a book on schedule.

But a wine club? Sure. And I’ve been a member of a few, with the simplicity behind the transaction a massive motivating factor.

Throw your Riedel stemware into the barrel and some clever sommelier will conjure up some vino based on your preferences. And then the bottles magically appear on your doorstep.

Your only obligation? Drink that wine quick enough before the next shipment arrives.

But that’s really where the fun stops because the whole experience tends toward impersonal at best, aside from the apparently tailo

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