New York Times Bestseller | The Writer Who Reads

*I will try not to include any spoilers in any of my reviews, now until the end of time. Amen.

In the About Me section you heard me describe my “struggle” with books. I admitted that I am picky and maybe even a bit strange. Well, I lied. I didn’t lie. I under-exaggerated. Stay with me here, I promise that we’ll get to the truth eventually.

I am not a freak, but my tastes in books are freakish.

The supernatural is really big nowadays after that young adult, anti-feminist little series that shall not be named, blew up. I am very wary of the supernatural and have gotten into many arguments with a handful of creative writers who have critiqued my own work. They call my stories supernatural and I get offensive. Then we dance along this supernatural, fantasy, dystopian line until we get tired, have a beer, and rest our feet.

In the end, I like oddities. I like strange occurrences that could actually happen. I like time travel and absurdly corrupt governments (on paper). And I love the quiet stories with main characters who fill the concrete world with lofty ideas and intentional hallucinations.

Hey, talking about intentional hallucinations and how much I like them, let’s talk about Mr. Fox since that’s what we’re really here for. Mr. Fox, which is written by Helen Oyeyemi was on the New York Times’ 100 Notable Books list in 2011 and I’m sort of surprised that I hadn’t happened across it until late 2012. The book is about Mr. Fox, a writer with a wife, Daphne, and a Muse Mary Foxe.

Mr. Fox has pressure coming from all directions with a difficult marriage, a cheeky muse, and the inability to stop killing off all of his female characters. All these pressures eventually intersect, creating a disturbing yet refreshing story.

What I really want to talk about is Oyeyemi’s writing. It’s one of those books that you read slowly for a few reasons. One, there are jumps between reality, make-believe conversations between Mr. Fox and Mary, and the fantastic short-short stories tucked in between where Fox is working through the whole killing heroines issue. Two, well, the writing is marvelous. How Oyeyemi avoided confusing me once was a miracle. How she maintained countless voices in such a small space is awing. Her dialogue is quick and witty and supports her unnatural ability to allow a scene to be sexy, disconcerting, tense, and sweet all at once.

There are many poems, short stories, and novels out there that are just weird for the sake of being weird. They throw out curse words and make characters lick things just for the shock value. Perhaps what is most impressive about Mr. Fox is that Oyeyemi very clearly began this novel with a story in mind and the weirdness just followed naturally.

I know I trash-talked it before but this story does get somewhat supernatural, especially where things like death are concerned. Again, I appreciate this for two reasons. Firstly, the supernatural aspects come within Mr. Fox’s writing. Meaning the story is still grounded; we have not left reality. Second, who am I to say that people don’t waltz in their tombs after death? I can assure you that I have never spent the night in a mausoleum…yet.

Finally, to reveal why this book caught my attention: I have a muse. A completely made-up, call-me-crazy muse. While I don’t fondle my muse or have loud and mentally scarring conversations with it, yes, I have a muse. We run through dialogue in my head. We make words sound genuine and interesting (I think). We explore different stories and, okay, I sometimes wish my muse were real.

Don’t look at me like that.

Anyway, I give Mr. Fox four stars for originality and excellent writing. The cover art is rather impressive too. If you’ve read the book, I hope you found my review unbearably accurate. If you haven’t read the book, what are you doing just sitting there? Go. Buy it. And support a small, local bookstore if you can.

Up Next: This Is Not Chick Lit by Various Authors

Gillian Flynn’s “Gone Girl” makes me want to start a book club. Not some new, trendy (I hate to say—hipsteresque) book club where we drink PBR out of eternally dingy thrift store goblets, and talk about vinyls more than books.

I’m talking a real book club.

I want a gaggle of forty-somethings with wrinkled mommy-pooches, where you’re side-eyed if you don’t have more than two children, a disinterested husband, and/or chronic fatigue syndrome. I want to sit back on Lydia or Martha or Betsy’s plastic covered sofa, eating a processed mash of lukewarm casserole off of a recycled forest-green plastic spoon, and delight in the thrilling strictly book-centered conversation. I want this because I believe in New York Time’s Best Selling Author Gillian Flynn’s recent novel. Because while reading I clutched my heart and walked around my house cursing characters under my breath. I squealed, and growled even more. I thought: I trusted you! How could you? And, to be honest, I genuinely had my feelings hurt more than once.

I know that forty-something year old women (for the most part) have seen it all. I respect them. The screaming kids, long days at work, that damn toilet seat that is never down, and whatever other dumb things husbands do after twenty or so years of marriage. These everyday grievances—very reasonably—would make it more difficult to be shocked or wowed or amazed on a daily basis. I would love to see that amusement. Maybe amusement is a poor word choice when we’re discussing a book so rich in murder, deceit, and scandal. But I want to see whose side they take—or are tempted to take—in this dark novel.

Basically, a group of 21-year-old hipsters reading some book and gasping at everything wouldn’t match or amplify the laborious tug that “Gone Girl” inflicted upon my heart.

(I am a 21-year-old anti-hipster in a way so passionate that I am often called a hipster.)

The review, the review. Back to the review.

Gone Girl.

Flynn does everything right, as can been seen through her fame and (I assume) fortune. A few things she does exceptionally:

Her characters: Well-rounded, realistic, human.
Her Formula: Not all books have one so unique.
Her plot: It’s a puzzle, cemented together in the end.

To put it all into actual thought: Flynn’s characters are varied, plentiful, realistic. They evolve. I marveled at her ability to create such depth in each character—depth that goes beyond the handful of focal characters, but reaches out to form very real and important people through phone conversations and second-hand reports of “off-screen” encounters.

The formula here says a lot. It does a lot. The diary entries are a device, another way in which we experience a character. The relationship quizzes splattered within these entries solidify this character. And, perhaps, that is what Flynn does so well. We have two narrators, but more than two voices coming through. With this, I must say, that I was always entertained, switching from one to the other like a stupid-hungry-excited puppy. But how dare I say any more? I might ruin the novel.

Finally, the plot. A big ole’ mash of cause and effect: That happens because of this. So this happens because of that. Of course! It is a mystery. You knew this from the start. From the spindly white scratches across the ominous black cover to the eerie synopsis, you knew this was going to get juicy. But I didn’t know how it would seep, so wonderfully laden with secrets and lush, substantial facts. I love facts—they make everything so real. They make a sunny New Orleans afternoon feel like midnight during a hailstorm.

I can’t go outside. Are you crazy?

I ran into some frustrations, but none I could harp on. Like my opinions of the characters, my stance on these frustrations changed constantly. The feminist in me felt troubled at times by how the female was handled. Were feminists getting a bad rap here? Were we being misrepresented? Or, were women just out of luck in Flynn’s novel? I don’t know, I couldn’t decide. It may have been the discomfort of seeing various, misfortunate women losing that disturbed me. After all, no one really won here. I could speculate out loud, give passages and ruin “Gone Girl” for any innocent passerby, but I’m no hussy.

If you’re looking for an addictive, twisty, and slightly-gruesome read, this book is for you.

Ultimately I cannot give Flynn’s “Gone Girl” less than four stars.