As a genre, thrillers are in the unique position of having to take the novel, an extremely longform medium, and create within it a certain urgency, a gnawing sense that the events of this story are unfolding quicker and quicker with every word that’s read. One aspect of Gone Girl’s paragraphing which works towards this is Gillian Flynn’s liberal use of the one-word paragraph, quick bursts of energy that often end scenes or chapters. During my first reading of the novel I disliked how often they occurred, but I do not believe that they were senselessly placed, nor that they do not achieve a purpose.

In Reading Like a Writer, Francine Prose speaks at length about the one-sentence paragraph, first discussing how it can be artificial or tiring for the reader, and then going on to describe its potential uses and passages in which the construction is used effectively. Her critiques can be summarized in three points: it can create simulated excitement, it can draw importance to sentences that would otherwise be unimportant, and it “feels like a punch, and no one wants to get punched” (Prose 74) and therefore should not be overused. In this way, the one-sentence paragraph is like a gun in a knife fight, to be used only in the direst circumstances when absolutely necessary, if only to maintain good conduct. Of course, these descriptors are shown to not always be true, as Prose is a master of providing counterexamples to herself and a gun is helpful if one wants plainly to win a knife fight, but they provide a helpful lens through which to look at this particular aspect of Gone Girl.

The novel’s first one-sentence paragraph occurs on the very first page, where Nick is describing his (not yet named) wife’s head and states “I’d know her head anywhere” (Flynn 3). This line, like the passages surrounding it, is extremely unsettling. And like the sentences surrounding it it’s a short phrase, creating a trio of quick pauses that bludgeon the reader’s senses and immediately tune them in that Nick and his wife’s is not an stereotypical relationship. The section does not function without this beat, nor if the standalone sentence is tacked on to one of its neighbors, because then it flies by too quickly. It draws the reader away from some of the more grotesque prose, such as Nick comparing her brain to a corn kernel and her thoughts to centipedes, which fits with the novel’s unreliable narration, and does not carry with it the subtext of overuse because it’s the first use of the form. Although, this last point quickly becomes insignificant as the one-sentence paragraph is used more and more.

A Diary Amy becomes more and more direct, she relates a moment when Nick’s anger overcomes him and he shoves her to the ground. She is describing how she was egging him on, writing in a way that exculpates him, and then breaks the news with “I just didn’t think he was going to do that.” On the surface this line is repelling. While it is the climax of the chapter, the italicized that accentuating Amy’s surprise via her refusal to rename the act that occurred, it is so facetious, so Marvel-movie-one-liner-esque that I couldn’t help but dislike the woman (Amy, not Flynn) that wrote it. But that is what Flynn wants us to think, and once the diary’s true nature is revealed the lines like this one are suddenly given new significance. We discussed in class how critical it is that Nick and Amy are writers, and this is part of that nuance; Amy uses the language in her diary to make her reader, both within and outside the story, paint her as the hapless Cool Girl. It is a function of Gone Girl that nothing is like it seems at first glance, and this holds true for its one-sentence paragraphs.

Because in the same way that Diary Amy is the hapless Cool Girl, Nick is the unfeeling asshole, Boney the noir detective, Rand and Maryann the cringeworthy doters, etc. Every character in Gone Girl is in some way a stereotype through which Flynn analyzes the thespian qualities of the heteronormative relationship, and so the repeated use of the one-sentence paragraph emphasizes this aspect of the characters, especially the two telling the story. Nick and Amy are selfish, they want to achieve their goals unflinchingly and they, for the majority of the book, have the additional task of convincing not just each other, but the reader that they are in the right. Their punchy language pulls us into the action and strings us along on this wild ride, and there is no better way for two mildly successful magazine writers to keep someone interested than the one sentence paragraphs; it is written for their readers as much as it is for Flynn’s. These constructions create simulated excitement to distract the reader from strange occurrences, draw attention to banal sentences that are red herrings, and are overused, but in ways that are indicative of the novel’s characters, themes and genre.