This blog post was written July 8 in the foothills of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.
It should have been hot and dry. It was not. The temperature was 60 degrees and
it rained. Not typical Denver-heavy-mist rain, but legitimate drops that made
pattering noises on the roof and splashed into the birds’ water bowl.
I
should have been working. Novel number two was sitting in my head and
languishing on a memory card, waiting for me. There was a piece of short
fiction parked on my laptop wanting finishing. I’d committed to writing at
least one tweet a day.
And,
if that weren’t enough, there was laundry to be done. Instead of doing
any of that, I read.
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn,
published June 2012. Wikipedia says it is a “thriller” and “an example of the
literary subgenre called Domestic Noir.” A term that was first applied to
fiction in 2013 by Julia Crouch, an author described as “the queen of domestic
noir.” She defines it as “a broadly feminist view that the domestic sphere is a
challenging and sometimes dangerous prospect for its inhabitants.”
The
same view of hearth and home held by many street cops, male and female. Retired New York City
policeman, Steve Osborne, in his nonfiction TheJob: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop, recounts one of many domestic
violence cases he's worked. “The wife explained that she was having a heated argument with
her beloved, and sisters being sisters – especially in the heat of battle –
they stuck together. And when the second woman butted in, the husband went ape
shit. . . . he grabbed a large kitchen knife from the sink and carved the two
of them up.”
I
know I’ve said before that thrillers are not my cup of Earl Grey. And they’re
not. Nor do I pay any attention to the New York Times Best Sellers list. But I
do take recommendations from friends and family seriously and my daughter said Gone Girl would be interesting to me
because of its construction. She was right.
It
begins with a husband coming home to discover his wife missing. The story then
unfolds alternately, through his viewpoint and the wife’s diary entries. Is she alive? Or dead? Did he do it? If she is alive, how long will she survive?
The
plot is exquisitely crafted leaving the reader not knowing what or whom to
believe. Twists and turns hardly describe the hairpin curves and backtracks we’re
led through. The fear factor, rather than proceeding up and down like a roller
coaster, drops us from one frightening crest only a little way down before jerking
us to the next greater height. Again and again. Never letting us relax.
I
won’t tell you how it ends, but I will say it’ll make you grateful for your own
problems.
