GONE GIRL Messes With My Mind

I was up till 1 a.m. reading Gone Girl the other night. Then I was up another two hours thinking about it. Note to self: don’t read a psychological thriller before bedtime. My unsettling dreams included someone trying to strangle me with my braids.

But, wow. Gone Girl.

Yes, this is the first time I’ve read this book. Yes, I’m aware it’s pretty much required reading for writers. Yes, I totally get why. The writer in me is enthralled with the genius in Gillian Flynn’s craft.

Writer-me admires how the characters are scary-real, the voice intimate-conversational, the story constantly unfolding with so many secrets it’s hard to keep track. This book kept surprising me. Betrayal after betrayal, lie after lie, and the occasional truth that hits your very core. Twisted. Deep. It’s a thinker—the polar opposite of TV shows and movies that insult the viewer’s intelligence.

No, I haven’t seen the movie. Probably won’t.

As much as intellectual-me enjoys studying the layers of brilliance the author worked into Gone Girl, this isn’t my kind of book. I like sci-fi/fantasy, and romance. I like Happily-Ever-After’s and books that leave me feeling warm and fuzzy, or at least satisfied. I’m not a big fan of disturbing characters and plots; I find the “real world” disturbing enough.

When I read, I’m looking for escape with a reasonably wholesome backbone. Humor is appreciated. Twisted is fine, but if I feel icky on the last page, I’m not going to pick up another novel from the same author.

Gone Girl was a worthy read as a learning experience, but I think I’ll dive into something less psychotic for my next book. If you have suggestions, please comment below!

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