As self-help gurus and internet memes continually remind us, our lives are a story we are empowered to write ourselves. Travelers Rest provides a thoughtful take on this idea, interweaving the melancholy stories of Tonio and Julia Addison, their 10-year‑old son Dewey, and ne’er-do‑well Uncle Robbie.

The setup is familiar from the uncanny end of horror fiction. The family are on their way home to South Carolina from Seattle when they are caught in a snow storm and pull off the highway into a small town that catches Julia’s eye: the ominously named Good Night, Idaho. Here they check into a chunk of faded grandeur, apparently in the middle of restoration, intending to resume their journey the next day. During the night, Uncle Robbie finds himself drawn to explore the hotel and … weird stuff happens. The characters become separated and spend the novel wandering back and forth through a small set of frigid locales – the hotel, a mine that may or may not be the source of the pervasive strangeness, a diner whose proprietors take a friendly interest in Dewey – trying to find each other and occasionally encountering other residents, some of whom may be equally becalmed. A historical dimension is gradually revealed through visions inhabited by Julia and Tonio, which might ultimately explain the curious position they all find themselves in.

Just at the point where it seems this might go on for ever, two characters are suddenly reunited, and then separated again. An ending occurs soon afterwards, one that is not unsatisfying yet which doesn’t make for a coherent whole – a result, perhaps, of the story’s compact core being buried within a wealth of reflection.

Each of the novel’s parts begins with a quote from Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. This is a studied choice – and one that reflects a flatness within the plot they punctuate. I suspect the author is intending that Travelers Rest be regarded as a sustained meditation on memory, reality and identity – and yes, in some ways it is. The novel is thoughtful, engaging and clearly the work of a writer who knows what they’re doing. We eventually gain insight into the Addison family, some of it profound, but so little happens outside their heads that the novel feels at times like a collection of character studies in search of a narrative. This is consistent with the underlying conceit and thus at least partly intentional, but it can nonetheless leave the reader without enough to respond to on a visceral level.

This doesn’t make it a bad book – simply a rather “literary” one, playing by those rules, which include the belief that, so long as your prose is decent, there is really no limit to how much of it you can dispense. Morris’s prose is very good – polished, accessible and at times quirkily humorous – and you can get away with this kind of thing in literary circles (and contemporary television), where character is king. But to compete satisfyingly in genre, you have to play by local rules, not least because this story has been told a million times. Like the blues chord sequence, it merits constant revisiting, but the appeal of your work will naturally be determined by the notes you play on top of it.

Story isn’t merely a series of events, of course. The constantly shifting currents of our interior landscapes will, when we look back at our lives, constitute the heart and soul of our personal narratives. But there is a balance to be struck, not least because character is often more compellingly evoked through action and interaction than via musing and recollection. At about half the length, this would have been a truly exceptional novella. Nonetheless, there’s much to admire and enjoy in Travelers Rest. The writing is persuasive, the characters are rich, and there are moments of great emotional resonance. Should you choose to stay a while in Good Night, Idaho, then – unlike the Addisons – you won’t regret it.

• Michael Marshall Smith’s latest novel is We Are Here (Orion). To order Travelers Rest for £11.99 (RRP £14.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846.