I love book clubs. I love reading for them, I love talking to them, and if I had my choice I’d probably do nothing but visit them to promote my books. Where else do you find people who have already made a commitment to read your book, and to read it closely enough to discuss it in a knowledgeable fashion with their friends? The best insights I’ve ever been offered about my work have come from book club members. In a world full of readings attended by the inevitable, random 5-to-10 bookstore browsers and 20-year-old assistant night managers who consistently mangle the title of your work, book clubs are an oasis of intelligent thought and discussion.

A few years ago, I learned that the ­in-store book club of the old Barnes & Noble on Sixth Avenue in Chelsea was going to be reading a novel of mine, “Dreamland.” There were signs around the store announcing when the club would meet, inviting anyone to take part.

I was flattered. The book had already been out for a while, but I thought I might condescend to stop by and ask if the club members had any questions, maybe soak up a little adoration. Floating somewhere in my head was a line from that Joni Mitchell song: “I meant to go over and ask for a song / Maybe put on a harmony . . . ”

The night the club was to meet, I showed up early, thinking I’d introduce myself at the start and ask if they wanted me there or not. But it was an informal setting, and it just felt too pompous to pop up and exclaim, “Hello, I’m the author!” I decided to wait until we were all supposed to introduce ourselves. I’d identify myself then, quietly reveling in the murmurs of surprise and delight that were sure to follow when they discovered the great man himself was among them.