The 4th of July has come and gone. That patriotic day seemed to chastise me for my lack of history books or traditional American novels on my bedside table. But, as everyone I had small talk with over the few days was sure to mention, it is really HOT outside.
In my apartment, the room with the best cold potential is the bedroom, with its surprisingly quiet and oh-so-efficient window unit. So my husband and I locked ourselves inside with the internet and books. And when I know I’m going to read something nearly all day, history is just not my pick.
Of course, my beside table wasn’t exactly set up for summer reading either. I’ve got a stack of three books already read, some unfinished manuscripts that will require too much thinking, and a non-fiction how-to manual. Not exactly a lose yourself in between pages kind of material.
So I started browsing Goodreads and Amazon for recommendations. It seemed like every category I tried, Recommended just for me!, Fiction, Mysteries, Thrillers all had the same book at the top of the list. What can I say, it was meant to be.
Gone Girl, published at the beginning of June. I was skeptical. I’ve never read anything by Gillian Flynn before, and I was not in the mood for some slasher story where the victims are predictable in their mistakes and everyone dies. Amazon’s review began,
Marriage can be a real killer.
One of the most critically acclaimed suspense writers of our time, New York Times bestseller Gillian Flynn takes that statement to its darkest place in this unputdownable masterpiece about a marriage gone terribly, terribly wrong.
So I figured it would be really bad or… possibly really good. Turns out it was the latter. This book is completely unpredictable. Just when you think the hubby is such a nice guy he can’t possibly have done it, he starts talking about her perfectly shaped head again and picturing it all bashed in as she crawls across the kitchen floor. Is he just imagining the worst? Because surely that crazy chic is the killer… Or maybe it never happened at all.
On top of all the sudden stops and 25 mph curves when you think you’re cruising down the straight highway of this plot, it’s also a heart-wrenching story of a marriage gone wrong. But not really in a thriller, these people are just crazy sort of way, not at first. It’s just the story of a couple who have hit a few bumps in the road, dealing with layoffs during the recession, ailing parents, and a general lapse in communication. It feels real, like it could happen to anyone.
Then there’s the prose. There was a point in the Kindle sample when I knew I was going to buy the book. It was on the second page:
6-0-0 the clock said — in my face, first thing I saw. 6-0-0. It felt different. I rarely woke at such a rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings; 8:43, 11:51, 9:26. My life was alarmless.
The characters have such wonderful characterizations, I would know them if they walked into my local bar. And yet, I wouldn’t know them well enough to say whether they were capable of murder. And that’s exactly how Gillian Flynn has left the reader feeling. All of these characters have flaws, the trouble is determining which of these flaws is criminal, and according to whom.
In the end, I felt vindicated in my pick because the scene of the crime is just outside of Hannibal, Missouri, the boyhood home of Mark Twain and the inspiration for Tom Sawyer. It’s a sleepy town where the tourists — who used to come out in droves — are no longer visiting to write their names on the white fence that Tom painted. Turns out I got a little American history in after all.