Fantasy segued into darker dimensions. And authors who used three whole names: Vivian Vande Velde, Annette Curtis Kluse, Mary Downing Hahn. By my sophomore year, I was deep into adult horror- King, Koontz, Rice.
"You must try classic horror,"Insisted Ms. Rose
Poe, Wells, Stoker. Stevenson. Shelly.
"Theres more to life than monsters. You'll love this authors."
Burroughs. Dickens. Kipling. London. Bradbury. Chauser. Henry David Thoreau.
"And these":
Jane Austin. Arthur Miller. Charlotte Bronte. F. Scott Fitzgerald. J. D. Salinger. By my junior year, I devoured increasingly adult fare. Most, I hid under my dresser:
D.H. Lawrence. Truman Capote. Ken Kesey. Jean Auel. Mary Higgins Clark. Danielle Steel.
I began to view the world at large through borrowed eyes, eyes more like those I wanted to own. HOPEFUL. I began to see that it was more than okay-it was, in some circles, expected-to question my little piece of the planet. EMPOWERED. I began to understand that I could stretch if I wanted to, explore if I dared, escape if I just put one foot in front of the other. ENLIGHTENED. I began to realize that escape might offer the only real hope of freedom from my suppose God-given-roles-wife and mother of as many babies as my body could bear. EMBOLDENED.
I also began to journal okay, one of the things expected of Latter day saints is keeping a journal. But I' d always considered it just another "supposed to", one not to worry much about. Besides, what would I write in a book everyone was allowed to read? Some splendid nonfiction chronicle about sharing a three-bedroom house with six younger sisters, most of whom I'd been required to diaper? Some supposed-your-disbelief fiction about how pictures- perfect life was at home, forget the whole dysfunctional truth about Dad's alcohol-fueled tirades? Some brilliant manifesto about how God whispered sweet insight into my ear, higher truths that I would hold on to forever, once I'd shared them through testimony? Or maybe they wanted trashy confessions- Day Dream by Satan. Whatever. I'd never written but a few words in my mandated diary. Maybe it was the rebel in me. Or maybe it was just the lazy in me. But faithfully penning a journal was the furthest thing from my mind.
Ms. Rose had other ideas one day I brought a stack of books, most of them banned in decent LDS households, to the checkout counter.
Ms. Rose looked up and smiled. "You are quite the reader, Gabriella. You'll be a writer one day, all venture."
I shook my head. "Not me. Who'd want to read anything I have to say?"
She smiled. "How about you? Why dont you start with a journal?"
So I gave her the whole lowdown about why journaling was not my thing.
"A very good reason to keep a journal just for you. One you dont have to write in.
A day or two later, she gave me one- plump, thin-lined, with a plain denim cover.
"Decorate it with your words" she said "and dont be afraid of what goes inside."
I wasn't sure what she meant until I opened the stiff-paged volume and started to write. At first, rather ordinary fare garnished the lines.
Feb.6 .Good day at school. Got an A on my history paper.
Feb.9 .Roberta has strep throat. Great! Now we'll all get it.
But the year progressed, I began to feel I was living in a strangers body.
Mar.15 .Justin Proud smiled at me today. I cant believe it! And I cant believe how it made me feel. Kind of tingly all over, like I had an itch I didn't want to scratch. An itch you-know-where.
Mar.17. I dreamed about Justin last night dreamed he kissed me, and I kissed him back, and I let him touch me all over my body. And I woke up all hot and blushing. Blushing! Like I'd done something wrong. Can a dream be wrong? Aren't dreams God's way of telling you things?
Justin Proud was one of the "hot bods" on campus. No surprise all the girls hotly pursued that bod. The only surprise was my subconscious interest. I mean, he was anything but a good Mormon boy. And I, allegedly being a good Mormon girl, was supposed to keep my feminine thoughts pure. Easy enough, while struggling with stacks of books, piles of papers , and mounds of adolescent angst. Easy enough, while chasing after a herd of siblings, each the product of lustful if legally married, behavior. Easy enough, while watching other girls pant after him. But just how do you maintain pure thoughts when you dream?
