What Makes an Antinovel? 6 Key Elements and Examples

An antinovel is a work of fiction that breaks from traditional narrative structures to challenge our notions of storytelling. Sometimes referred to as “antifiction,” antinovels are less about following a defined path and more about navigating uncertainty. The result is often fragmented, disjointed, or open-ended — leaving the reader to question what a “story” even is.

This genre has notably paved the way for postmodern literature, giving writers permission to break all the rules — or invent their own. Today, authors like Mark Z. Danielewski, Jenny Offill, and Valeria Luiselli continue to push these boundaries and keep the antinovel going strong.

Although antinovels deliberately break all the rules, they still have certain traits that distinguish them (and allow them to be grouped together). Let's break down these key elements of antinovels below.

1. A nonlinear narrative

Most novels like to take things step-by-step — beginning, middle, end. Simple, easy… and if you ask an antinovelist, incredibly boring.

Antinovels throw the “typical novel” playbook out the window. Instead of moving in a straight line, they twist and jump through time like a narrative rollercoaster with no seat belts. One moment you're in the middle of a conversation, the next you're two years in the past, and then suddenly you're somewhere that might be a dream or a memory… or both?

Example: Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation tells the story of a marriage unraveling, but it does so through a collage of brief, often disjointed fragments — observations, facts, memories, and inner monologues. The narrative resists linearity; time skips, retraces, and loops back on itself, reflecting the instability of a life in crisis.

Antelopes have 10x vision, you said. It was the beginning or close to it. That means that on a clear night they can see the rings of Saturn.

 

It was still months before we’d tell each other all our stories. And even then some seemed too small to bother with. So why do they come back to me now? Now, when I’m so weary of it all?

 

Memories are microscopic. Tiny particles that swarm together and apart. Little people, Edison called them. Entities. He had a theory about where they came from and that theory was outer space.

 

The first time I traveled alone, I went to a restaurant and ordered a steak…

How to incorporate this into your writing:

• Start in the middle of a major event, then loop back (or forward) to reveal context over time.
• Use memory or dreams to interrupt and reorder your timeline.
• Break chronology with abstract markers such as “?” or  “∞” or chapter titles like “Before” and “After.”

2. Unusual aesthetic presentation

In addition to the narrative of an antinovel, one must also consider its presentation on the page — that is, how an author can use unorthodox layouts, typography, and formatting to disrupt readers’ expectations.

Indeed, a great antinovel doesn’t just “look weird” for the sake of it. Instead, its seemingly chaotic form should reflect any theme(s) the author wishes to convey.

Basically, an effective antinovelist doesn’t just write about disorientation, memory loss, or obsession; they make readers experience it through their book’s aesthetic presentation.

Example: In Jonathan Safran Foer’s Tree of Codes, the story is literally carved from the page. Huge chunks of text are cut out, leaving gaps that mirror the novel's themes of loss — of memory and otherwise.

Reading becomes an experience of absence, where what’s missing arguably speaks as loudly as what’s left behind. It’s also an experience that is physically challenging for readers, as they must hold each page individually to read it properly; otherwise it overlaps with the other cut-out pages.

How to incorporate this into your writing:

• Experiment with visual elements: play with white space, broken text, or variable font sizes to echo the emotional tone or theme of your story.
• Use fragmentation or visual disruption, such as blank pages or blackout text, to reflect instability, loss, or distortion.
• Break up the text with diagrams, images... anything that’ll force the reader to engage differently.
• Always ask yourself: does the way this looks do something that the words alone can’t?

3. Experimental use of language 

Antinovels also stretch the limits of language, using syntax and style for exploration rather than just communication. Instead of sticking to familiar grammar, sentence structures, or even tone, these books approach language like a grand experiment in what is possible.

Narrators shift mid-paragraph, voices blur together, and the story might pause for a philosophical aside or completely change tone without warning. It’s less about providing neat, clear descriptions and more about capturing a feeling, a question, or a moment of insight — even if it’s messy.

Example: Ulysses by James Joyce tosses punctuation aside and forces the reader to dive headfirst into a whirlwind of disjointed thoughts. One moment you’re asking for a hairpin, the next you're swimming in a foreign language, and — before you know it — you’re judging someone’s appearance.

Joyce doesn’t care about clarity when it comes to language; he’s more interested in showing how thoughts bounce around, merge, and spiral out of control.

Mulveys was the first when I was in bed that morning and Mrs Rubio brought it in with the coffee she stood there standing when I asked her to hand me and I pointing at them I couldnt think of the word a hairpin to open it with ah horquilla disobliging old thing and it staring her in the face with her switch of false hair on her and vain about her appearance ugly as she was near 80 or a 100 her face a mass of wrinkles… 

How to incorporate this into your writing:

• Mess with sentence structure. Break things up, drop punctuation, or twist sentences around to mirror the chaos of thoughts.
• Let voices blur together. Mix up different narrators or perspectives in a paragraph and make the reader work to follow along.
• Switch up the tone or language without warning. This keeps the reader on their toes and shows how emotions or thoughts can “flip”out of nowhere.

4. Exploration of existential themes 

Again, antinovels aren’t just playing with form for fun — they’re often digging into the deep stuff. Who are we, really? What gives life meaning? Can we ever truly know anything? 

Instead of focusing on what’s happening in the story, these books are more interested in why it matters — or whether it even does. Think of them as literary thought experiments, using fiction to examine things like identity, memory, truth, and the strange nature of consciousness itself.

Example: If on a winter’s night a traveler by Italo Calvino takes the reader on a wild ride through the fragmented, unpredictable world of reading itself. The narrative shifts from one incomplete story to the next, pulling you deeper into a maze of lost identities and half-formed memories.

Calvino wants you to question what it means to read, to experience, and to know anything for sure. It’s like his book is playing with you, daring you to find meaning in the chaos — or maybe, just maybe, showing you that meaning might not even exist.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice — they won't hear you otherwise — "I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: "I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone.

How to incorporate this into your writing:

• Explore big existential questions without offering any clear answers — leave room for doubt or ambiguity.
• Make your characters question everything, from their identity to the world around them, and let the reader feel the weight of that uncertainty.
• Play with the idea of reality by blurring the lines between memory, perception, and truth.

5. Meta-narrative and self-awareness 

A hallmark of many antinovels is their self-awareness — a kind of literary wink that reminds the reader they’re engaging with a made-up story.

These works often include commentary on the writing process, interruptions from the narrator, annotations with extensive footnotes, or characters who seem aware they’re in a novel.

Example: Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov presents itself as a 999-line poem with footnotes by a wildly unreliable editor. The footnotes gradually take over, becoming their own chaotic narrative and completely shifting the focus away from the “main” text. It’s like the editor hijacks the book — and invites us to join in on the madness.

Lines 120 to 121 of Nabokov’s poem reads:

A thousand years ago five minutes were / Equal to forty ounces of fine sand.

Then, in Pale Fire’s commentary section, the editor’s footnote for these lines states: 

Lines 120-121: five minutes were equal to forty ounces, etc.

 

In the left margin and parallel to it: "In the Middle Ages an hour was equal to 480 ounces of fine sand or 22,560 atoms."

 

I am unable to check either this statement or the poet's calculations in regard to five minutes, i.e., three hundred seconds, since I do not see how 480 can be divided by 300 or vice versa, but perhaps I am only tired. On the day (July 4) John Shade wrote this, Gradus the Gunman was getting ready to leave Zembla for his steady blunderings through two hemispheres (see note to line 181).

How to incorporate this into your writing:

• Let the narrator break the fourth wall. Have them comment on the story, question the plot, or even challenge the reader, if you’re feeling bold.
• Include unexpected interruptions in the narrative. Characters realizing they’re in a book? The plot itself becoming self-aware? The possibilities are endless!
• Add footnotes, annotations, or asides that veer off into their own world, distracting from the main story but adding layers to the experience.

6. Refusal to resolve 

Tie up no loose ends. Leave contradictions intact. Antinovels thrive in ambiguity, often avoiding any sense of closure. The lack of resolution deliberately invites the reader to sit with discomfort and draw their own meaning.

Example: Ice by Anna Kavan loops and shifts without clear direction, all the way to the end. The setting and characters morph unpredictably, and resolution is nowhere to be found. The narrative keeps the reader on edge with its eerie, dreamlike atmosphere that refuses to settle — completely on purpose.

Reality had always been something of an unknown quantity to me. At times this could be disturbing… I had visited the girl and her husband before, and kept a vivid recollection of the peaceful, prosperous-looking countryside round their home. But this memory was rapidly fading, losing its reality, becoming increasingly unconvincing and indistinct, as I passed no one on the road, never came to a village, saw no lights anywhere.

How to incorporate this into your writing:

• Play with contradictions. Let different truths coexist without trying to explain them.
• Avoid clear resolutions or endings; instead, create an open space where meaning is up to the reader.
• Make the reader feel unsettled by the lack of closure, forcing them to confront the discomfort and figure out their own interpretation!

And there you have it — a deep dive into the strange, thought-provoking world of antinovels. They may not play by the rules you’re used to, but that’s exactly what makes them so exciting. Once you embrace their unorthodox spirit, from nonlinear timelines to abstract language and meta-narratives, you’ll see just how inventive and boundary-pushing fiction can be.