When asked why he decided to become a writer (during his third interview with Oprah Winfrey), author James Frey said it was reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. He said it “changed his life.”

Changed his life? That’s a huge statement. I’d never read it, never really felt compelled to. Now, however, I was quite interested. If a novel has that kind of power, count me in.

Early on, Miller refers to a woman not as a woman, but as a “cunt.” I winced, but read on. After all, it’s Henry Miller. It changed someone’s life! It’s revered as a classic and heralded as a triumph of free speech. Surely I was being too sensitive. Maybe I needed to grow up, even though I was a married woman in my forties, a mother of two and had come upon this word before.

The references continued, repeatedly. “Cunt” was used interchangeably with “woman” or instead of a woman’s name.

My mind kept drifting off the page, away from the story and turning towards Miller. Was he doing it for attention? Was it a provocative device designed to ignite controversy? A savvy marketing ploy? Or was he simply a misogynistic asshole?

Disturbing as it was, I pressed on. And it wasn’t just the word “cunt” that was turning me off (although it didn’t help much).

About a third of the way through, I took the book - this famous, life-altering piece of “literature” - and threw it in the trash.

I’ve always passed books along to a fellow reader or donated them. The ones I’ve loved have a permanent place among my library. To me, good or bad, books commanded respect.

Then, for the first time ever, Tropic of Cancer provoked me to put one in the garbage, right where I think it belonged. So, in a way, I guess it changed my life, too.

It was the summer between seventh and eight grade. I was thirteen years old and looking for books to read. I was staying up to five in the morning and sleeping 'till noon. Of course, my mom didn't like that but I wanted to read! So I did anyway.

I had gotten a gift card for whatever various reason and was waiting to spend it. It was about three in the morning and I wanted to read a horror story. I guess I was just in that kind of mood.

I found one named "Hell House." I read the synopsis and it sounded like your stereotypical haunted house story. If I know anything about me, it's that I like stereotypical books.

So I bought it and started reading it. It all started out the same, haunted house in the middle of the swamp. A group was going there to rid the house of its demons. The usual.

Until I got about a fourth through it. They started getting possessed, which is still normal enough. Except that the ghosts, when they possessed the people, would make them rape each other. Men on men, women on men, every combination you can think of.

Well that was a surprise for thirteen year old me.

Did I stop?

No…

It was my little rebellion to my over bearing mother; my little secret to keep away with her. It's not like I was getting any "pleasure" from the book, besides the fact that it was enjoyable to read. (Besides the sex scenes.)

A woman was even impaled by the phallus on the Jesus nailed to the cross in the church.

Let's just say: I've not forgotten a scene from that book.

As I entered my early teenage years, I discovered a love for horror stories - fiction horror stories. Unfortunately, when a love for horror is combined with an increasingly violent atmosphere at home, a change occurs. The child, full of wonder and delight, grows to feel fear, to learn to hide, and to hold back just a little. Of course, this would effect each individual differently.

There are certain things I became increasing afraid of -- sharp objects, but especially axes and chainsaws. I've never watched the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies. The fear developed from something deeper, something more ingrained, from a past life time, I suspect.

One of the most disturbing thing I've ever read was from a newspaper. I was in my twenties, living a normal life. When I read the article, the skin on my arms crawled. I felt sick, but worse my mind screamed. "See, it can happen in real life. You had a reason to fear such things."

It occurred in the town I was living in, Pulaski, TN. I didn't know the individuals, but the horror was felt all the same. A man had chased his nephew down the road with a 'running' chainsaw. When he overtook the young man, he cut him up in bits. He dismembered him with a chainsaw!

From what I recall of the story, the man was mentally ill and had quit taking his medicine. The nephew had come to check on the man because he wouldn't answer his phone.

Although, I'm sure this is not the only incident of such a thing occurring. It took me by surprised because it was right there, in the same town.

The most disturbing thing I've read (and actually wrote) was when, in my short story "The Voices" a demon -- basically a demon -- takes over a man and then rapes and murders his girlfriend. All the while the guy is forced to watch as his body, while under control of the demon, rapes his girl and kills her. Pretty messed up.

- Michael Hall

A newspaper article cut me to the heart! A monster, disguised as a mother, warned her husband that if he left her, she would do harm to their child. The man left, and the baby only lasted a minute in the microwave. I was outraged, and I penned the following to show how a good mother should view her child.

YOUR  FAIR  CHILD

Here lies the child

All fresh and new;

Cradled in your arms,

Precious, warm, and true.

Believing eyes look up.

They're trusting, clinging too.

A love beyond all measure -

Full of life that's needing you.

In order to survive,

The child must have you near;

To feed, and bathe, and clothe,

To comfort laugh and cheer.

Your lives will twine together,

And form a two-fold strand;

As every day you care for

This child placed in your hands.

By Don Ford

A book I read that just had the biggest plot twist. Basically a child if thirteen years addicted to attention. Of she didn't have the attention she would get rid of whoever was stealing her spotlight. Strangling girls her age and pulling out their teeth. How could a thirteen year old be that psychotic. And her mother loving to give attention. Purposely sickening her children to comfort them. Even going so extreme where her daughter had died because of her. And her sister who came from a big city back to her home town to solve a murder commuted by her own little sister. And craving to cut and self harm. Write words along her body for comfort and attempting suicide many times.

I can't tell you the name, because I don't remember. I read it when I was about 13 years old.

I don't remember much, but I do remember a young girl locked in a closet. I remember pain, torture and tears. I remember feeling emotional and needing to finish it.

When I did finish it, I read it again. There was something about it. So haunting and ...

It's stayed with me forever. And I'll most likely never remember the title, but I'll always remember the story.