Dammit, Jim

I've waited and waited and waited to publish my thoughts about James Frey. I should state up front that I have never read A Million Little Pieces. Of course I may do so now after all of the talk that's been going on. I watched his interview with Oprah with a red face that I hid beneath the bill of my hat. So he lied. And I bet he regrets every single word of the book. I caught bits and pieces of his tenuous claims and apologetic mutterings on Oprah. I felt for him. And then I thought about myself. How fitting. I'm writing a book as some of you may know. An autobiography, though, not a memoir. And all of the events are true. But. I will have to make some stuff up. And that is why this Frey fiasco has me up in arms. When I woke up to go to school one morning and was instead taken to the police station to go to the foster home when I was three years old, I don't really remember the events leading up to that car ride. I only remember riding on the shoulders of a tall teacher who I think was named Ron. I will have to fill that space. I was only in the foster home for a week or so. Not three months. And it wasn't a terrible experience. I was the only kid there. I won't fudge those facts. I'm not stupid. So is it all right for me to make up the breakfast I ate and the walk I took to meet my teachers who would put me in the hands of the police? I'm not so sure now. And that pisses me off. I remember walking out of a Mexican restaurant called Perry's when I was five and asking my mother where I came from. But I don't remember why I was at the restaurant or what happened during dinner. Can I make that up? I did. But will that stand? Another thing that has come out of this is the number of people who seem to hate memoirs. I don't give a shit about those people. I found out only a few years ago that not everyone is compelled to write about their lives and hit a book-tour circuit. I don't get that. But that's just me. So I'm gonna keep writing, but I'm not sure how this Frey thing will affect the words. I didn't read his book. And so I don't know how I would feel about all of this had I done so. Augusten Burroughs apparently fudged his facts, too, but I'm not crying myself to sleep at night. Frey got caught. He wouldn't regret his words if he hadn't. And I'm sure Oprah's public lashing of him didn't help. I'll be watching the sales of memoirs for a while. I may have to turn mine into a fictional tale of the intersection of race, class, gender, and sexuality.