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:

1. Her characters: Well-rounded, realistic, human.
2. Her Formula: Not all books have one so unique.
3. 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.