Gillian Flynn
Gillian Flynn
Gillian Schieber Flynnis an American author, screenwriter, comic book writer and former television critic for Entertainment Weekly. Flynn's three published novels are the thrillers Sharp Objects, Dark Places, and Gone Girl, the latter of which she adapted for the screen in the 2014 film of the same name directed by David Fincher...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth24 February 1971
CityKansas City, MO
CountryUnited States of America
I think mystery writers and thriller writers - whatever genre you want to call it - are taking on some of the biggest, most interesting kind of socioeconomic issues around in a really interesting, compelling way.
I'm a true-crime addict. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, but I can't stop.
I've suffered betrayal with all five senses. For over a year.
She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
Nick is like a good stiff drink: He gives everything the correct perspective.
I am a cutter, you see. Also a snipper, a slicer, a carver, a jabber. I am a very special case. I have a purpose. My skin, you see, screams. It's covered with words - cook, cupcake, kitty, curls - as if a knife-wielding first-grader learned to write on my flesh. I sometimes, but only sometimes, laugh. Getting out of the bath and seeing, out of the corner of my eye, down the side of a leg: baby-doll. Pulling on a sweater, and in a flash of my wrist: harmful. Why these words?
It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cottonball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified.
For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured.
He was one of those guys who'd pronounce I'm a hugger as he came at you, neglecting to ask if the feeling was mutual.
I'd come to believe there was no food more depressing than Danish, a pastry that seemed stale upon arrival
How do you keep safe when your whole day is as wide and empty as the sky?
Bang bang bang. I understand now why so many horror movies use that device-the mysterious knock on the door-because it has the weight of a nightmare. You don't know what's out there, yet you know you'll open it. You'll think what I think: No one bad ever knocks.
What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head, all my mean spirits disappearing with a gun blast, like blowing a seedy dandelion apart.
I was raised feral, and I mostly stayed that way.