Book Review: Gone Girl, A Novel by Gillian Flynn

Gillian Flynn and her book Gone Girl
Gillian Flynn and her book Gone Girl
Where do I start? I want to keep this review short, but how can I? This book lives up to the reader-writer hype. I admit. I was put off by all the wide-eyed praises. As I read the story, I could feel myself being pulled into cryptic talk, lies, and murder.

So let me begin with themes. Let’s just get the literary devices on the table and how they affect the story.

  • Economy – the novel often visits the characters’ financial standings and how money [it] drives their emotions–a parallel of our reality. Flynn definitely established authenticity there.
  • Unreliable Narrator – my favorite theme throughout the novel is how the narrator’s are not trustworthy. I was immediately pulled into the story especially in the beginning with Nick’s sociopathic, Dexter Morgan-like demeanor.
  • Setting – obvious and well placed. Flynn illustrates setting quite nicely. The reader can see the opportunity and the ever changing city of New York and Carthage, Missouri. Flynn takes her characters to a small, slow point, which they have to recover, however, the madness of Nick and Amy Dunne take them into a spiral of deceit and wrathful daydreams.
  • Family – Universal. Readers can see the drawbacks of a dysfunctional household as well as one that’s “amazing”.

With some of the literary items listed (I’m sure there’s more), allow me to really say what I think:

This book was awesome. The emotional investment I had in this book…my goodness. I wanted to find Jules and Vincent, the hitmen from Pulp Fiction, to pay Nick Dunne a visit. Why not? The man would have been fine if he just told the truth in the beginning. Amy is right, he is a dummy. A big, damn dummy with a hoard of silver tongue fibs that can drive anyone crazy. Thing is Amy was already crazy.

Flynn, you got me. I was on Amy’s side until the bomb she dropped about the diary. I still felt like Nick needs a Ezekiel 25:17 speech. But Amy is crazy, bat crazy. By the way, I hate the phrase “fake it till you make it” and Flynn places it on the tongue of one of the most diabolical women in literature, an appropriate gesture.

I’m glad I read Gone Girl. The author really gave readers a treat. Eloquent. Suspense.

End result: Impressed. As a writer, I will try hard to follow Flynn‘s example.

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Jammin’ while You Write

While jogging has nothing to do with my blog, it compares to my writing.

How?

When I jog, I brainstorm. I let the images of my imagination burst into the adrenaline giving me the energy to survive the five miles in one hour. I have to admit that the best ideas show themselves when I’m on my feet.

The secret ingredient behind the infinite ideas is music–an entity that allows me create epic movie trailers every four minutes. Each slam of the drum, every strum of the guitar takes a character through a miniature journey which seems to last a lifetime during the small fraction of time given by each song.

I don’t know about the rest of the writers and readers out there, but Video Game and Rock music happens to be the go to sound to bring forth the fantasy world while Hip-Hop pushes the envelop of urban grit. At the end of it all, my mind’s eye stares down this mass universe that I can’t seem to comprehend how I will put it on paper during one lifetime.

To be specific, my playlist consists of music from Koei Tecmo’s Dynasty Warriors, Alter Bridge, T.I., and an assorted list of OCRemix. Each song serves a particular pace. As y’all might have guessed, T.I. and Alter Bridge is responsible for the adrenaline pumping sound that makes my teeth grind and my breath puff like a cartoonish bull.

Dynasty Warriors’ music is for the long haul. I really put my mind through a simulated battle. Sparks become a collection of synapse creating an thick yet smooth air from my lungs to the sweat rolling on my salty skin.

Remixed game music takes me through a fluctuating adventure of breathing. I have to make a decision…Do I explode during something harmonious? I’ll regret it later if I do.

Point is that writing takes me through the same exercise as jogging. As music feeds my ears with organized noise and verses, my fingers fill the page with a sketch, which I eventually fill with inspiration, precision, and consideration. Of course, it’s not healthy to blast the music against the sensitive eardrum, so I take it easy–stop a few cycles–and explode in a barrage of words that can potentially draw the reader into the universe I imagined when I placed the balls of toes on the ground.