Around the end of 2012, I read a blurb about a book by the name of Gone Girl written by Gillian Flynn in a random magazine at my doctor’s office. The premise seemed interesting enough. Wife goes missing on their fifth wedding anniversary; did the husband do it? It piqued my interest for a moment and then was quickly forgotten. A few weeks later, while browsing through iBook, I saw it again on the bestsellers list and said “what the hell? I’ll give it a try.” I already had a substantial “to-be-read” list, so I didn’t jump into it immediately. Instead, I let it toil away, collecting proverbial dust on my virtual bookshelf. As the winter slipped away, spring breezed by, and the summer came hotly on its heels, I started noticing something. That book that I had bought, all those months ago was everywhere. Everywhere. I could not go on a NYC subway line, or in a coffee shop, or in the cafeteria at work without seeing someone’s head buried inside Gone Girl. Seriously, no matter where I went, someone would be reading it, holding it, or talking about it – even my mother. So because I’m an immature asshole, and I hate mass fanaticism, I refused to read it. Yup. I refused to read a book I paid good money for. Not because it was lousy (I hadn’t read a word) and not because the reviews were bad (apparently it was golden) but because it was already hot and I was tardy for the party. Call me immature if you want (go ahead, I can take it) but there is something about jumping on the bandwagon when it’s already crowded that I can’t stand. I hate that shit. I want to be one of the first people already settled and looking on the rest of the hopper-on with my lip curled and my nose in the air. And in doing so, I almost missed out on a very good read from an excellent writer. I’m not totally in love with Gone Girl, but I’m head over heels in love with Gillian Flynn’s sharp wit and incredible writing. I will most definitely be reading her other books, Sharp Objects and Dark Places.
I’m Savanna James – mother, wife, faithful tax payer, and scarily enough, a-wanna-be writer. I know what you’re thinking. Why in the world would anyone in their right mind choose to be a writer? I’ve been asking myself that very same question. And still, almost a year later, I’m stumped. Really fucking stumped.
To be completely and inappropriately honest, if I could choose anything to do with what little free time I have between work, giving my kids enough attention so they won’t grow up to be serial killers, and keeping my husband half-way sexually satisfied with half-ass blow jobs and quickies, stressing myself with all the shit that comes along with writing, is the last thing I want to do.
I could do better things with my time, like lying in bed, curled up with Steinbeck, Faulkner, or one of my smutty, tingly books – reading the art of words, instead of trying to create them. But just like the mini-sized Snicker, Twix, and Hershey chocolate bars I just inhaled, reading curbs the craving for something bigger, but it doesn’t satisfy it.