We spoke to two groups that are carving out their own queer spaces, one page at a time
BY DAISY DEMPSEY, IMAGES PROVIDED
On a cold evening in Queens, New York, three women walked into a book club hoping to find connection. Instead, they were met with silence. “We literally made eye contact and waved… nothing,” one of them recalls. Within hours, they were in a nearby lesbian bar, laughing about the experience, and deciding to start something of their own.
Across the Atlantic in London, a similar story was unfolding. What began as a handful of readers connecting through TikTok has since grown into a thriving community of over 100 members, complete with ticketed events, writing workshops, and, most importantly, friendships.
These are not isolated stories. Lesbian and sapphic book clubs are quietly having a resurgence, filling a gap left by a shrinking number of queer venues and an increasingly online world. They’re a place for shared interests and connection, and they’re doing far more than discussing books.
“I think people were really craving in-person conversation and community,” says Tyffaine De Lafore, who started London-based sapphic literary collective, Sappho’s Circle, after building a following on BookTok.
What began as a casual meet-up of four people has since grown into a network of over 100 members, with ticketed events, a book club, writing workshops, and pub quizzes. “In person, it becomes more than just discussing a book, it’s like a mix of conversation, therapy, and gossip. You don’t get that same depth online,” Tyff explains.
That hunger for offline connection is a recurring theme. In a time where literary discourse is predominantly on digital platforms, and within a queer scene often centred on nightlife, book clubs are emerging as softer spaces to meet.
For Madison Rodriguez, Emily P, and Mabil Velis, co-organisers of Queens-based book club, Lavender Lit NYC, the idea was born out of disappointment. The trio met at another book club that felt, in Madison’s words, “disorganised and unwelcoming”. A second attempt elsewhere was even worse, a last-minute venue change, freezing weather, and a room full of people who “basically ignored us, even when we said hello.”
“We literally made eye contact and waved… nothing,” Emily recalls.
So, they did what many queer women have done before them: they built something better. After bonding over drinks at a lesbian bar, they launched their own group chat, jokingly titled “The Better Lesbian Book Club,” and began planning their first meeting.
“We were so nervous,” Emily says. “It felt like hosting a birthday party and not knowing if anyone would show up.”
They needn’t have worried. Their debut event quickly filled, complete with thoughtful touches designed to avoid the cliquey atmosphere they’d experienced. Each person was given a name tag to write their star sign and their rating of the book. It sparked conversation and meant the evening emphasised inclusivity from the start.
“Some of us didn’t have queer friends before this,” Mabil says. “Just past relationships. So, this created a real sense of community. It’s really easy to find queer spaces everywhere in New York. But specifically sapphic spaces are harder to find.”
Emily agrees, “There’s a different level of relatability and shared experiences that others might not fully understand.”
It’s also a shift in how queer women are choosing to socialise. While bars and clubs remain important, they’re no longer the only, or even the primary, option. Higher rents and the lasting effect of COVID-19 have seen queer venues close their doors at an alarming rate. In London, between 2016 and 2017, over half of LGBTQIA+ venues closed according to research from UCL. Whilst, in 2020, NBC News reported that there were fewer than 20 lesbian bars remaining in the US.
The book clubs are also offering an alternative space altogether. “When I was younger, I wanted to go out all the time,” Madison says. “But now that I’m older, I’m more interested in meaningful connections.”
Tyff sees a similar dynamic in London. “There’s a level of comfort in sapphic spaces,” she says. “We really understand each other, we don’t judge each other.”
As these clubs grow, so too does their impact. Friendships are forming organically and members are attending other queer events together. Tyff is even imagining a future permanent space, whether a bookshop or community hub, where these connections can deepen further.
“We’re kind of in a literary crisis,” Tyff adds, only half-joking. “So anything that encourages people to read is a good thing. But more than that, it’s about bringing people together.”
In a cultural landscape where lesbian spaces have historically been scarce and often fleeting, the rise of book clubs feels quietly radical. They’re low-cost, easily replicated across towns and communities, and they’re rooted in care. They’re a reminder that connection doesn’t always need a dancefloor. Sometimes, it just needs a room, a good book, and a group of queer people willing to show up for each other.
Follow @lavenderlitnyc and @sapphos_circle on Instagram.
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