Reading, as a means of entertainment, is gloriously and tragically solitary.

Think about it. Watching a television show or a movie or a ball game is often done with others, preferably with snacks. Maybe your friends meet up each week to cheer their favorite contestant on Top Chef. Or you catch the new Indiana Jones movie with your brother—even though you’re skeptical about the inclusion of aliens and outraged by the inclusion of Shia Labeouf, it’s worth it when you’re looking up at that screen together, eyes aglow, hands shiny with popcorn grease.

It’s difficult, however, to read a story or essay or even poem with someone else and have it go smoothly. Even if you can both see the page (or, as is becoming more common, the screen), you must contend with the issue of reading speed. Even then, it’s awkward, reading with someone else, as if they are invading your personal space, stealing a glance at a private corner of your soul. It’s like a friend has followed you into a dressing room when all the other stalls are empty. It’s weird.

I know this because I’ve tried it. I’ve tried it because I enjoy sharing things I love with the people I love, and there are few things I love more than reading.

The solitariness of the activity, of course, is a large part of what makes it so precious, so formative. When I was a kid I loved the privacy of being immersed in a book so much that I didn’t even want to be seen while I read.

I would take my pillow, a flashlight, and can of peppermints under my bed, where I would devour Janette Oke’s Christian pioneer romance novels, borrowed from my grandmother. If my mom called for me, I’d silently turn the page, wanting only to learn, along with stoic widow Marty, how Love Comes Softly.

(If I were to read those books now I would again hide away while doing it, though for different reasons.)

Now, though, there are times when I read something so moving or funny or apt that I yearn to share the “viewing” of it with someone as I could a movie.

Reading aloud is a possible solution, perhaps as close as we can get to experiencing words for the first time with someone else. Still, the experience is different. The listener isn’t reading, and the reader is vocalizing—that is, paying attention not only to the words as they appear, but also to their own intonation, speed, and the listener’s reaction. The fully absorptive quality of reading is lost.

My most successful group reading experience involved sitting around reading silently in the same room. I’m nervous to write about it here, as the confession—coupled with the previous mention of Janette Oke—may mean that I am asked to retire from the Good Letters team. But here goes.

It was at the release of the seventh and final Harry Potter book, The Deathly Hallows. I loved the series, though not as much as my boyfriend and his best friend, who speculated at length on how it would end, and visited blogs where other fans posted their predictions.

Although David and I lived in Tennessee and our friend lived in Boston with his wife, we flew there. Just to get the last book, and read it together.

On the day of the release, the four of us saw a show by Harry and the Potters (the rock group whose songs are all based on the series) on Harvard’s campus before heading to a nearby bookstore to wait with hundreds of other fans for our midnight copies.

Each of us bought a book, and vowed we wouldn’t peek inside until we got back to the apartment. Then, already well into the wee hours of the morning, our friends settled on their couch, we settled onto the futon, and together we set some ground rules: we would read one chapter at a time, and stop at the end of the chapter until everyone else was finished.

We would abstain from gasps, cries of alarm, or tears while reading—anything that could cue the others to what came next. When everyone had finished the chapter, we would go together onto the back porch to discuss what had happened over cigarettes. Then we would come inside to start the next chapter.

We read almost all night, then slept, had breakfast, and began again. On the third day, we finished the final book. Together.

It does not escape me how deeply dorky this was. However, it turned out to be one of the most joyful reading experiences of my life.

With all we have to endure alone, it’s good to be together when we can, sharing what’s important to us, even if it takes unusual effort or involves a little silliness. It is good to sit together and know our eyes might not be on exactly the same word, but we’re maybe on the same page, and we’re definitely caught up in the same story.