In a moment of weakness, I was suckered into a rookie mistake I thought I'd long outgrown. Somewhere in my early twenties, I came to the realization that sale statistics for books are not good predictors of whether or not I'll enjoy them. In fact, the opposite has proven to be true in more than half of cases. I read a number of very popular titles in high school (She's Come Undone, lots of Michael Crichton, I Know This Much is True, blah blah blah.) They were page-turners and I enjoyed them. I matured as a reader at some point during college, however, and found that these books no longer had the same appeal. They read like action movies that everyone sees because of the great special effects: flashy, shallow, exciting and then quickly forgettable. I found myself gravitating toward books that took a bit more thought and that let me luxuriate in gorgeous language and nuanced, thoughtfully developed characters. Often, I find these books to be page-turners as well, but not always. And that's OK. In fact, it's welcome because this type of book often makes me think, and grappling with new and complicated concepts and themes should not be rushed.
Popular books sometimes appeal to me, but I am highly suspicious of books that do very, very well and read them with great trepidation. I research books thoroughly before I commit to acquiring them and reading them. In addition to reading reviews by professionals (Maureen Corrigan and Michiko Kakutani are some of my favorites, though Corrigan can sometimes be too generous and Kakutani too harsh), I read Amazon reviews from readers. The latter method is incredibly informative. Lots of misspellings, too many exclamation points, and generally fluffy content in positive reviews? Chances are the book appeals to a different kind of reader than I am. I look forward, lord willing, to many more decades of reading, but with a to-read list as long as mine, that doesn't give me time to mess around. I am ruthlessly picky.
Usually.
I am ashamed to admit that I have been suckered in. For some reason, after having (rightfully) dismissed it as dreck, I convinced myself that reading Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl might be worth a shot. I reserved a copy at the library and picked it up last week. Twenty-nine pages in, I was spectacularly underwhelmed. I found Flynn's (discouragingly frequent) attempts at wry humor to be wooden and effortful, and her "witticisms" left me scoffing.
Exhibit A:
She wasn't on the water, she wasn't in the house. Amy was not there.
(New paragraph)
Amy was gone.
(End of chapter)
The tile of the damn book is Gone Girl. How contrived is that? It reminds me of too many high school essays, inexpertly splashing dramatic language around hoping I won't notice they don't make a single solid point. This book is full of groan-worthy phrases like the one above, and the characters have the kind of forced depth I associate with flakes advertising their own merits on online dating profiles. I often have to drag my eyes from the ceiling, where they've rolled with disgust, back to the page. Because that's the worst part: I can't stop reading the stupid thing. At page 29, I told myself that I was going to give it 20 more pages - everyone (even Flynn) deserves a fair chance. That was just enough time for her to sucker me into the story, and now I'm committed to finishing it. I've always fancied myself someone who won't tolerate bad writing no matter how good the story. Dan Brown? No, sir. Life is too short to read poorly written stories, no matter how compelling the plot. But this one isn't even all that compelling, and here I am, hopelessly ensconced.I am reading it furiously now, hating myself more with each lamely resolved chapter. The faster I go - and it is, as you'd expect, a fast read - the sooner I will finish it and be able to move on to some work of merit. I've got Mandela's autobiography, an Updike novel, a book of essays by David Foster Wallace (swoon), and an issue-and-a-half of Granta to catch up on, to name just a few of the many worthy tomes waiting patiently on my shelves. Perhaps I'll turn them all so their titles are facing the wall until I've finished Gone Girl; I can't bear the thought of their seeing me with it.
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