I occasionally go to one of two local reading groups run by bookshops. Last time I went to one, the book was by a local author I know slightly through mutual friends, and she called by for the first 20 minutes/half hour to discuss it and take questions. The moment the door shut behind her, the people who had asked perfectly polite ‘What made you…?’ questions started ripping the book apart like jackals on a carcass. I was fascinated, as it was a perfectly competent, but uninspired crime novel. It had done nothing to deserve such ire, it was just a bit lacking in characterisation.
I am fascinated by book groups, though, because of what they tell me about how other people read. I had not expected quite so much of people blaming a novel for not being a completely different type of novel which it had never claimed to be!
The only other time I’d attended that group, the book was a (very good) coming of age Irish-American family saga set over a few months in the late 70s, focusing on teenage siblings. Several people seemed terribly pissed off that it wasn’t a thriller, or didn’t take place over 20 years, or that you didn’t get the parents POV.