There's a particular kind of novel that announces itself loudly, as if waving a neon sign reading LOOK HOW WEIRD I AM while performing a backflip into a vat of surrealist nonsense. "Anomaly Flats" is that novel. It is a book so enamoured with its own quirkiness that it forgets to include anything resembling emotional depth, thematic weight, or, crucially, a reason to care.
At the centre of this caffeine-fuelled fever dream is Mallory, who has all the warmth and charm of a damp sock. She's meant to be sharp, quick-witted, the kind of protagonist who can throw out a well-timed quip even as the universe unravels around her. Instead, she's just unpleasant, an endless loop of sarcasm with no grounding in actual personality. Her frustrations are understandable, but watching her snipe her way through the book is like being stuck in a lift with someone who thinks passive-aggressive commentary is a form of high art. Then there's Lewis, whose main function appears to be whining. His grievances are delivered with such consistency that you begin to suspect he's a sentient Reddit thread given human form.
The writing, to its credit, maintains a certain rhythm, snappy, self-aware and relentlessly ironic. It is the literary equivalent of a stand-up comedian who refuses to drop the mic, ever. Dialogue is constructed with the sole purpose of being clever as if each character exists only to participate in a perpetual battle of wits. This might work if they had inner lives beyond 'sardonic and exasperated', but they don't. There is no emotional core, no moment where the characters stop talking like they know the audience is watching and actually become real people. It's all surface, no substance.
Then there's the strangeness. "Anomaly Flats" certainly delivers on the promise of oddities, bizarre events, unsettling mysteries, and deeply unnatural occurrences. The problem is that none of it feels like it means anything.
Strange for the sake of strange is not, on its own, compelling. The weirdness piles up, growing in volume but not significance, until the entire book starts to feel like an abandoned warehouse full of ideas the author thought might be fun but never quite knew what to do with. The Walmart incident? Transparent from a mile off. The mysterious contents of Mallory's bag? By the time it's revealed, you'll be too weary to care. It's like watching a magician drag out a card trick long after you've figured out how it works.
Let's talk about the ending. Or rather, the distinct absence of one. After spending an entire novel flinging weirdness in every direction, the book declines to offer anything resembling a satisfying conclusion. Instead, it opts for a non-ending, a flimsy 'to be continued' that seems more concerned with setting up a sequel than resolving the mess it has created. Imagine investing hours into a film only for the screen to cut to black while the lead character shrugs at the camera. That is the experience of reaching the final page of Anomaly Flats.
To be fair, it isn't unreadable. The pace is brisk enough to keep you going, if only out of sheer curiosity about what inexplicable oddity will appear next. It's not a bad book in the sense that it's structurally incompetent, just frustratingly shallow. It wants to be Twin Peaks meets Welcome to Night Vale, but without the unsettling tension of the former or the eerie lyricism of the latter. Instead, it settles somewhere closer to Family Guy if Seth MacFarlane was really into David Lynch but didn't quite get what made him good.
Two stars, then. One for the effort, another for the fact that, despite everything, I still finished it. I regret the time, but not quite enough to be angry about it. A mild disappointment rather than a full-blown catastrophe. Much like "Anomaly Flats" itself.
⭐ ⭐