A week ago I spent three days in the exclusive company of women. We were celebrating the dwindling bachelorette status of my good friend, Leyna, in the oddly German town of Leavenworth, Washington. I went into the weekend with unconfronted nerves — I mean a houseful of women, most of whom I didn’t know, for three days, sounded like the opening of horror story.
I wanted to write some long piece about Gone Girl and how much I loved the movie, and how it stayed true to the book while also being an entertaining film, and also something about how much I relate to Amy Dunne, which I know is a strange (and honestly, scary) thing to say about a woman like her, but I really do feel a kinship with her and all women who have been cool girls until they couldn’t be cool girls any more, because haven’t we all tried to be the people others wanted us to be only to fail and disappoint them anyway?
I wanted to say powerful things about societal expectations of women, and blah, blah, fucking blah. Imagine I did express my opinion with such profound ideas, you stopped reading right here to look around seeing the world for the first time. Imagine, I didn’t, because that’s closer to the truth. Amy Dunne, you dark, cynical bitch: I understand you and I love you still. I love myself, too.
And Gillian Flynn, I love you, too. You said the words that live inside so many of us without flinching. Thank you for being willing to put both hands in the muck, to raise the truth up to the light and show us exactly what lives below the surface.