I'm not going to lie -- as someone who got scared off by the "Goosebumps" series as a child, has to periodically take a break from watching "Pretty Little Liars," and is still terrified of haunted houses, I tend to stay away from the “scary” stuff. I’d much rather sit curled up with a cup of hot chocolate enjoying a feel-good family movie instead of cowering under the blankets with my eyes half covered, which is exactly how I felt while reading the novel "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn, and then watching the film adaptation by David Fincher shortly after (why I thought that was a good idea, I still don’t know). Nevertheless, as I checked off the first book on my summer reading list last week, I understood the crazed reaction surrounding the thriller a couple years ago as it gained traction.

From the beginning, Gillian Flynn sets us up for a face-off between Nick and Amy, two sides of a marriage both damaged and propelled by their expectations for each other. Pointedly speaking through her characters on gender roles such as the “cool girl” that men want and the “dancing monkey” that women want their husband to be, Flynn constantly disrupts our conditioned mindset by allowing us to question the validity or possibility of these idealistic caricatures. More frightening than finding out Amy went to the length of framing Nick for her murder in the second part of the book, was realizing “diary” Amy in the first part was a concoction the character herself had created because she believed people were dumb enough to buy into it. And I, along with the police officers, neighbors, and general public in the story, was tricked into thinking this “cool girl” not only existed, but was someone at the back of my mind I wanted to strive to be.

As Amy finally tells Nick, “You were the best man you've ever been with me. And you know it. The only time in your life you've ever liked yourself was pretending to be someone I might like,” we finally realize that she has lured us, as well as Nick, back into thinking compromise was something for weak couples. According to Amy, true love only exists to push ourselves unhealthily to be that “perfect person” who doesn’t exist: “Love should require both partners to be their very best at all times.” For all her outrage at the “cool girls” of the world, she embraces Nick’s need for her to be one at the beginning of their relationship, because that’s the only way she’ll be able to eventually control him and make him her extreme “dancing monkey” at the end. Nick finishes his part by saying, “Yes, I am finally a match for Amy… I’m rising to my wife’s level of madness. Because I can feel her changing me again: I was a callow boy, and then a man, good and bad. Now at last I’m the hero. I am the one to root for in the never-ending war story of our marriage. It’s a story I can live with. Hell, at this point, I can’t imagine my story without Amy. She is my forever antagonist.”

Rewriting those words makes me have so much respect for Flynn in creating this inception effect with her writing by constructing layers of fiction within this piece of fiction. I was left exasperated by the two characters’ self-aware need to continue this extravagant and intelligent plot of pretending to be people they aren’t simply to be exceptional, or at least what they think is exceptional, whether it is Amy’s twisted version of love, or Nick’s desire to “win.”

The one aspect of adapting the story to film that I really enjoyed was the choice to add a line for Nick in his final TV interview, holding hands with Amy and turning to her, saying, “We’re partners in crime.” I could so feel the genius weight of that line holding the whole story of their relationship the audience of the film in real life would know, but the general public audience in the fiction world of the story was left out on while watching the interview. This relationship of the press with the public in the story was so captivatingly contrasted with our ability as readers and film viewers to also see the private lives and relationships of these fictional characters, and really reveals the scary complexity of that public/private dynamic in real life as well.

Just as Nick speaks of Amy as his antagonist, though, my initial fear with the public reception of the movie was, as writer Cate Young describes on her blog, “On the face of it, 'Gone Girl' is a misogynist's wet dream. It validates every bullshit MRA fear that women are out to destroy men. After all, Amy frames ex-boyfriends for rape as a matter of course, meticulously frames her husband for murder, murders a different ex-boyfriend during sex for the crime of helping her escape her 'abusive husband' and being a little too possessive, and then traps her husband in their loveless marriage by stealing his sperm to become pregnant. It is a literal laundry list of things that convince men that feminism at its core is simply a 'misandrist revenge fantasy.'" On a closer look, it’s interesting to realize that this story with the roles reversed would not have surprised us very much, and half the reason it is so terrifying is that it is a woman instead of the male villain we’ve been taught to sympathize with over and over again in fiction.

I noticed the temptation exists to automatically craft Amy’s evilness onto all women in real life, when in reality, Flynn calls on us all to do exactly the opposite, and see Amy just as she is, a fictional character that is a female villain. So powerful is Flynn’s message that one can speak on gender politics from a feminist perspective as an author through a female antagonist that is both misogynistic and misandrist. Amy is far from a feminist, but she is indeed ironically empowering women by showcasing the availability for women to be ugly, evil and fully actualized characters. I love this quote from Flynn about another one of her novels, “Isn't it time to acknowledge the ugly side? I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains -- good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we didn't have more interesting things to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn't necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves -- to the point of almost parodic encouragement -- we've left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids. So 'Sharp Objects' is my creepy little bouquet."

I especially like this quote because, as someone who is indeed a part of that “parodic” cycle of encouraging girl power, I’ve become a part of a system that doesn’t allow women to fail, to be less than the perfect feminist, or to acknowledge our “ugly” sides in fear that somehow this intuitive power or right to have a voice will be revoked once again. But that’s what feminism is all about: breaking boundaries and testing our right to be represented as whole and real humans, embracing both the good and the ugly.

So although I may soon return to my happy endings and warm fuzzies in fiction, I’m glad I gave this book a go, because I have to give kudos to Flynn for constantly pushing the boundaries of these labels we identify ourselves with. There were so many layers to this critique of our society, from the way Nick saw the lead female police detective on the case, Rhonda Boney, to Amy’s parents, Marybeth and Rand’s contrasting, overly loving marriage. Whether it was through Tanner Bolt’s wife, Betsy, who flippantly calls out our continuing discomfort with addressing race, the exploration of the impact of Midwestern versus New York cultural stereotypes, or the gendered expectations and obsession with perfection surrounding Amy and Nick’s marriage, Flynn challenges us to see the complexity of life, including the ugly aspects, as something we should embrace before they destroy us.