Her book was one of the first to cash in on the ongoing memoir craze and was best known for Laake's mocking, detailed revelation of top-secret Mormon temple ceremonies and, oddly enough, for her lengthy account of years of obsessive-compulsive masturbation, which she blamed indirectly on Mormonism. Laake even became a hit on the talk show circuit, where, beyond fielding questions about masturbation, she tried to explain why her religion very nearly destroyed her.

But the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints did not react happily to "Secret Ceremonies." After its publication, church leaders excommunicated Laake for apostasy.

There were reasons Mormon elders couldn't abide the book, which makes them -- and Mormonism -- seem silly and cruel and dangerous. For instance, Laake describes a series of Mormon bishops, or spiritual advisors, as stupid, rigid, insensitive and occasionally voyeuristic. She makes fun of little old ladies called "Temple Helpers" who dressed her for the first time in "garments," or holy underwear, which she was instructed to wear all her life. (Throughout the book, she makes fun of her garments, which she finally sheds for good a few years later.) She details her Mormon Temple wedding, which includes a ceremony in which her fiancé "Monty" pulls her through "the veil" with a secret grip during a pre-wedding ceremony. "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter you into the joy of the Lord," she recalls Monty telling her.

The book is still controversial; just log onto Amazon to see the emotions the book elicits. Even today readers either trash Laake for whining endlessly about her problems or elevate her to sainthood for writing a tell-all book about the Mormon Church.

I remember standing in the bookstore after buying the first edition of "Secret Ceremonies," leafing through the pages, being taken aback when I saw that Laake had put my name in the acknowledgments. She said I was part of a "community of writers" who "provided unstinting help and encouragement whenever [she] needed it." I was even more surprised when she signed my copy of the book this way: "I miss you like hell. Love, Deborah Laake." I did not recall our working years together during the late 1980s and early 1990s at Phoenix New Times as being particularly warm, intimate or deserving of "Love, Deborah Laake," and I did not think she had any reason to miss me "like hell" when she went on her book tours.

Looking back on it, I realize I failed to recognize the extent of her mental illness, which often took the form of extreme self-absorption and out-of-control boastful egotism. When Laake won a top state writing award in 1989, she ordered an editorial assistant to bring a dozen long-stemmed American Beauties to the awards ceremony so Laake could clutch them to her bosom during an offensively self-congratulatory acceptance speech. The award has been passed out for decades, and no winner before or since has ever demanded roses.

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