Practicing Goodness With Anne Lamott

I just recently finished reading Anne Lamott's honest musings on human interaction, life, etc. in her new(est) book Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith.

I feel like every bone in that woman's body has got to be made of sarcasm and joy.

As a writer, I find that I'm drawn to other writers who are exceptionally good at telling the truth.

Wait.

Isn't that, after all, what we're all (and I don't mean writers but everyone) trying to do? I think, however, that the separation from the crowd begins with their ability to tell the truth in simple ways without compromising the meaning therein. Without a doubt, Lamott's life experience turned phenomenal skill (miraculously) fits within these brackets of description. Though it only seems appropriate that I imagine her, elbows up, trying to widen the gap. She has that sort of spunk.

What I love most about Lamott's memoir-ic prose is her complete disregard for creating herself elegantly, making things seem rosier than they may have been, not always having the appropriate amount of time to catch her dignity as it often slips down off the countertop and tumbles to the floor. Crashing halts and whatnot, she's still manages to gracefully reveal her sometimes ungraceful humanity, and not only does this make for stunning humility, but also somewhat hilarious prose.

One of Lamott's questions that resounds most through this interrogation of faith is her wondering what we are truly like as people, and what elements of our nature are most defining. I think that if she doubts herself at all, it is only because she is not sure if our more feasible and despicable natures outshines our moments of quiet gentility. Or vice versa.

For example, am I myself right now, as I sit here with wet hair, in old slippers, no one to impress with a cup of tea in my hand (with incredibly dry skin, even) and the unexplainable need to scratch my neck every few seconds? Is this a definitive moment? Or are we instead to come to terms with ourselves through bigger circumstances, more elaborate occasions, places and moments where we are forced to make difficult or unmake-able decisions? Are the ordinary days equal in importance to the milestones? Does it matter excessively? Not quite at all? Who are we in front of others compared to who we are in front of ourselves, in those simple, forgettable times against our limelights, our debuts, moments of glory and shame?

Surely there are immense differences.

Lamott's assertion is that we do this as a form of self-protection. That we know our ugliness and are intrinsically designed to be ashamed of that. That we are well aware of how to behave when we need to, but that it is in fact exhausting to be good. So we use all our energy to be publicly balanced and then as soon as we are behind that curtain or closet door we are a mass of screaming madness, we have hatred, we have fears.

But if we are aware of how we should be, and if we can in fact obey what we are convinced is better than our self's reality, then are we not capable of betterment, however forced? Is this better half an equal portion to our negatives, our shortcomings?

Is pretending to be better the same as being good? Sometimes, anyway?

I don't know. I'm not sure if Lamott knows, or if her opinions (strong as they usually are) necessarily go in one direct way or another. This, however, is what she says:

".. And it's good to be out where others can see you, so you can't be your ghastly, spoiled self. It forces you to act slightly more elegantly, and this improves your thoughts and thereby the world."

Well, much as I love her. Every time I manage to have one good thought (and by that I mean, "I like pears" or something so equally simplistic that finding something bad about it would be extraordinarily difficult) I am not quite convinced that the world is becoming a more livable place.

The idea, however, seems worth a shot.

We learn by practice, right? Those piano lessons that you hated growing up, the scale excercises, the chord sequences, they only got easier when you did them for twenty minutes a day, did they not? You certainly had no interest in doing it, and you could never quite understand your mother when she insisted that if would make you a well-rounded individual. All you could understand was that you were missing out on other activities, on hide-and-seek, on cartoons.

So to see you would display a miserable face and dragging hands, an obvious discontent to be hung over eighty-eight keys playing Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer."

But to hear you meant you could play it. And that, after all, was all.

So if we can learn to play the piano, or speak a language, or the rules of chess, how to tend to tulip bulbs, to recite a prayer, if we can willfully put the time in to practice these things and retain them by repetition, then will our stabs at goodness, perhaps for twenty minutes a day (though for myself it is often less) produce a similar result?

In the same way, if we neglect our transitive verbs or let our rooks and knights settle under a timely coat of dust, will we also lose our ability to smile at strangers, have compassion for the unlikable, think well of those who have mistreated us?

Lamott, throughout her writings, feels fully free to admit to all of us when she has fallen short of such tasks. She even speaks of often immediately regretting ill words or thoughts, unfair or immature reactions, silent grumbling. She gets it, she says. She knows that we all need just enough space to make a big mess. Just as long as our willingness to clean up doesn't leave us, we're going to be okay.

So I guess really what Lamott means is that we should do a little good even when we don't want to. When we have been snapped at by a customer, we should smile, even if we'd really like to pop their head like a balloon.

And she gets that some days you're going to go for the popping, which could leave you hugely embarrassed or with one disgusting mess. Either way, we're entitled to losing it. No one, least of all Anne, is expecting you to glide through, blessing every miscreant you come across. She is, instead, trying to give you (and I) a small nudge and a knowing look that says, Sure, today you're the victim. But tomorrow you'll be the one who needs compassion.

So, for today, let it slide. If you can, that is. If you have yet to exhaust your daily token of goodness for the world, let it go.

Practice won't make (umm), well you know. But, as Lamott would agree, it could certainly be the start of something better.

Holiday Hours: Come Again? (And more)

I was thinking about holidays.

Not just "the" holidays, whatever that is intended to mean, but rather the tradition of a general holiday. How they were designed to christen a significant moment; how that moment was celebrated and recognized and passed on and remembered. How what that celebration recognized, more importantly than the day it was held, was that the times it represented remained important, that they had over time retained their right to be relived.

This musing was, I guess, (initially) stirred by the fact that the definition of the Christmas season gradually becomes more and more vague, beginning with how it seems to seep further and further into autumn every year: decorations going up in October, Santa showing up at the mall on the first of November, carols streaming through the radio twenty-four hours a days. All this so that by the time December 25th rolls around, the two months of previous and unharnessed anticiaption have exhausted everyone out of enjoying the actual day, forget even remembering why it mattered in the first place.

Oh, and this isn't going to be one of those "It's the spirit, not the gifts, that count" shake-downs though, don't get me wrong, me + you + everyone could stand to check ourselves in that department.

Instead, I'm just wondering why (or maybe how) this season can be hyped and amplified until everyone is deaf and dumb to the fact of it, and yet when the actual and designated day of celebration arrives, all sense of tradition is often lost or, worse, rejected?

It's a loaded question. But it's a genuine one.

Here's an example, and brace yourself: I'm a barista at Starbucks. (In case anyone was or wasn't wondering, that's not necessarily ever going to be a statement I can proudly make. While I take pride in hard work no matter its form, the corporate man has a way of sucking away the soul. Don't worry yet; my grip's quite good. Also, obviously since my first post, "The Advantages of the Unemployed," times have changed. For the better? We'll see).

Okay, we'll start again: I'm a barista at Starbucks. (See earlier disclaimer). And a fact I was not aware of until my rather recent employment at said company is that Starbucks does not ever close its doors. Now, of course there are opening and closing times, hours that the stores operate by, unless of course you happen upon one of those 24 hour establishments.

But they do not close on Thanksgiving. Not on Christmas Eve. Not on Christmas Day. Not on New Year's, not Yom Kippur, no to Easter, not for the Dali Lama, should he make such a request even on his personalized stationary. Though, for Starbuck's sake (ahem), I am not aware that this last event has ever occurred; so if in the future Tanzin decides to drop a note, we will see how it all plays out. Until then, I stand by my statement.

All that slight exaggeration to say: wherever and whenever you are, you can get your disastrously priced fix.

This, my friends, is where my dilemma began, where my monstrous, huge-ass questions began to form.

If a place like Starbucks can insist on opening their doors on Christmas morning, it must be because they are expecting to make a profit. After all, profit is the heart and soul (though I expect they'd have neither) of corporate America. They are expecting customers. They are expecting moms and dads and teenagers and elderly to arrive, demanding specifically-temperatured, sugar-laced beverages in exchanged for their green dollar bills.

Problem, and question, number one. Why are these people at a chain coffee shop on Christmas Day? Let's see, they are Jewish. No, they are atheists. They don't celebrate. No, they are widowed, no, they don't care.

And number two; why are there Starbucks employees working on Christmas Day? Fine, they're Jewish. No? They're atheists. Don't celebrate, lost their husband, they don't give a damn.

Can this possibly be true?

I'm sure that the one angry girl you work with who is no doubt extremely mad at God or the lack of God that she believes in is having struggles hoping for a greater power or good or reason. So maybe she works on Christmas and frowns at everyone and drinks by herself when she gets home.

And I guess that the man who entered wearing a threadbare and weather-inappropriate jacket didn't have anywhere to go, so he came here, for the warmth, for the surprising openness. For a cup of coffee and a seat in the corner.

And maybe there are customers on their way to holiday parties or family get-togethers who need a quick double espresso for the hour drive ahead of them. Maybe the people serving them don't mind at all. Maybe they are, instead, happy to do so, on today as much as any other day. Maybe even the good spiritedness they feel has encouraged them to serve even more. If so, then it is certain they are all better people than me.

I understand that even if holidays retained their intended respect that there would always be those who either choose to remain disinterested, or simply feel excluded, or the weather was bad so traveling became a pain, or they haven't spoken to their brother in a decade, or they don't believe, or they can't believe, or they're bitter, or they forget, or they're alone.

Someone will always have to be the one to say, okay, I'll take one for the the team, I'll lose my parents, I'll never marry, I'll be an only child, I'll have no real friends, I'll be the outsider, yes, okay, I guess if no one else wants it, I'll be the one who's alone.

It's like when I see an old man sitting in a diner by himself. And he's ordered a hamburger. Just a plain hamburger, no fries, not even a pickle on the plate. And I sit there, watching him methodically cut his burger into four quarters on the plate that is next to his felt fedora, sitting slightly crushed on the table next to him.

I want to run to that table, offer to join him, offer him my friendship, be his savior, make sure he isn't lonely, rescue him from that position that I hope to never be in!

But I never do. I just start to feel silly, to think that maybe he wants to spend an afternoon with just himself, that his wife has been nagging him, that the gutters need to be cleaned, the grass cut, and oh if he could just steal one hour outside of the house with no interruptions, well that would just be goddamn peachy.

So he sits there, and maybe every few minutes I look up to make sure he isn't weeping or staring into space (which undoubtedly is the physical projection of loneliness), and usually what I find is that he's dozed off in between bites, appearing, if not being, perfectly content.

So I've diverted. And I'll get back to demanding to know why towns don't close down anymore in honor of tradition. Is that absurd? Slightly, I suppose. Too nostalgic? Oh, absolutely.

Honestly, though, I'm not sure I can help it. I understand that the hospitals and police stations can't close. I get that we need protection and refuge, I get that someone has to sacrifice, and I get that some people don't mind doing it.

I'm not even saying that I would mind. I would question it. But I would try not to mind.

Even if I think it would be better to say to that man (threadbare coat, remember?), hey, you're welcome in our home, it's Christmas, we have more than we need, and I'd like to offer you more than a solo cup of coffee.

Maybe he'd think I was crazy. He'd be entirely correct, if not necessarily for this precise reason.

Still, it's a thought. It's an idea that I think we cast off too long ago, that celebration is exclusive, or that establishments and businesses turn on their "Open" signs because it's a Wednesday.

Hell, remember when places used to close just because it was Sunday?

Exactly.

(Oh, just a note: I get that not everyone takes their day of rest on the same day. Just speaking in some traditions, Sunday was the first day that came to mind).

I guess if I mean anything, I mean this: just because we spent the last 60 days decking the halls doesn't mean that the actual day(s), Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, etcetera, aren't more important. Because they are. And you shouldn't have to work that day. Unless you want to, or volunteer to, or genuinely decide that it's how you want to spend your time.

And if you volunteer, or cooperate willingly, despite the fact that you have kids or beliefs or parents in town, then I wholeheartedly commend you.

Sincere offering is a talent, not a trait. And holidays don't decrease in worth or necessity because they aren't spent huddled around fireplaces holding hands with your dearest loved ones.

But they do (or rather should) evoke a sense of family that has long been discarded. It has become that if you cannot be with such people then, whoever they may be to you, that it is inconsequential, that it is a day, that other opportunities will arise.

And of course they will. Constantly, if you are lucky and wide-awake. But let's not quite yet or entirely lose the need for togetherness that these days reserve. We will need each other every day, that is certain. But we will need each other then as well; even if that is an ordinary statement, idea, or truth, let it not be forgotten.

What you can learn from Law and Order

I feel like I've voluntarily watched Law and Order: Special Victims Unit enough times to qualify as a fan of the show. Perhaps not a diehard; I don't know the name of Elliot's (Christopher Meloni) wife, I don't know how long he and Olivia (Mariska Hargitay) have been detective partners, if they have other character friends, where they party, etc. In now ten years of airtime, there is certainly no chance that I've seen every episode, though I have caught at least one in all of Hargitay's hairstyle phases. I have to say, dear pixie cut: no, thank you.

While I think the acting is more than acceptable, if not expected, for such shows, it's not really why I can scan through the channels and skip over That 70's Show (though, don't get me wrong, is good in its own Ashton-Before-Demi way) in favor of a Saturday SVU marathon. It's not even necessarily the stories which, may you again not be mistaken, are also riveting. I might even volunteer the word breathtaking, in a truly terrifying way.

The thing that strikes me most about this crime drama is the reality of it. And real quick, I feel the need to defend myself for a third time in about two hundred words: I get that there are about six thousand shows that mirror realistic and everyday crimes. My exact numbers might be off. I get that I haven't seen them all, and I get that you get I am specifically talking about one show, not all ten thousand. (I hear the numbers are growing by the minute). I get that there are even two other stems of Law and Order. I get that TV crime isn't always exactly the slums of the cities we live in.

I get that there are real problems. The fortunate (and I guess, for the sake of dear knowledge, the unfortunate?) part about it is that I've never been exposed to such circumstances. I have never truly feared for my life, ran from a killer, prayed to be rescued. I'm sure that's got something to do with the fact that I live in front of a cornfield and not rows upon rows of apartment buildings, corner drugstores, shady alleyways.

In fact, outside of some brief and (somewhat) sheltered college living situations, I've never truly lived alone. I went from my parent's house, to the dorms, to an apartment, to a miniature house, and back to my parents' once again.

I've never been afraid to walk home. Well, a few times, but that's only because I have very mean friends whose idea of funny is to hide behind strategically placed mailboxes and shrubbery.

I've never been afraid of being car-jacked or shot. Well, once, but that's because I somehow got lost in Camden, New Jersey trying to find my way into Delaware. Trust me, the roads are tricky.

And I was going to say I've never been afraid of being mugged or pick-pocketed, until a very recent Philadelphian moment when I was absolutely, stubbornly convinced that someone had stolen my wallet. After about thirty minutes of crying, cursing, frantically digging through my purse, rehashing my oh-so-flighty steps, crying some more, cursing some more, crying while cursing, I found it, right on the sidewalk (where I had earlier dropped it, I might add), untouched. I believe this, in anyone's world, is what we could call a blessing.

But these are all entirely small concerns. And I guess the biggest question (one of several, I'd imagine) is, if these shows, in their merest form of entertainment, are also able to educate, can they then also inform us of fear? Can they instruct us how to be cautious or how to be afraid? Is there necessarily a difference? Or rather, is the difference necessary?

Here's what I mean: I recently watched an episode that involved a sadistic man whose main goal in life was to control those that surrounded him, family members included. He taught (sorry, threatened) people to fear him and that fear, in his mind, was equal to respect.

The episode ended with Elliot and Olivia finding his 20-something year old nanny locked in a box, alive, under his bed.

So what now? Do we now know to never accept a job invitation from a man who is unable to make direct eye contact? Or do we just trust no one? Is everyone suspect to criminal intentions?

Ummm, maybe. Maybe not directly towards us; maybe if they were only in a certain situation at a certain time with a certain amount of desperation involved. Nonetheless, how do we determine who to trust, and what has primetime's role become in finding that answer?

And so you're probably thinking, Okay, fine, crime drama = informative, yet scary. What about the 6 o'clock news? What about the story about a hit-and-run, the shooting in North City, Everywhere, and the missing kids and the missing kids and the missing kids.

I know. The news scares me, too. Whether it be global or about the people next door, it can truly be a nightmare.

I guess all I mean to question is this: when does that information become crippling? When do we cross over from being informed of our world and aware of our surroundings to being too afraid to exit our front door?

I don't want us to be paralyzed by what we can't control. Not only would that be unfair, it wouldn't be right. We'd have to just stop living. I don't want to be afraid to walk through a parking lot in the dark, I don't want to grip my purse as I'm walking down the street, I don't want to assume every stranger I meet is going to put me in the trunk of his car.

I'm going to do those things sometimes, but I don't want to.

I also don't want to stop watching TV. All things considered, all trash and gore and horror included and aside, I rather enjoy television. I don't devote hours of my life to it or anything. But I sure don't mind Will & Grace reruns, most anything on the Food Network, and sure, sometimes whatever Law and Order episode that Sleuth has to offer.

And I suppose now it's a matter of (ah, yes) checks and balances. Adding the drama to our reality, realizing what is happening, deciding when our safety is actually at stake, being smart, or trying to, in the types of situations where we just aren't sure if the man is a bartender or an axe murderer.

The former is more probable.

Still, for the sake of Elliot and Olivia's pride as television teachers, I'd check around for incriminating evidence.

Part II: What do you mean now, James Frey?

Okay, okay. So if you've read Frey's A Million Little Pieces, to completely over-simplify it (sorry), you could say that the moral of the story is: drugs are bad. Don't do them, don't sell your soul to them, because if drugs aren't bad enough, rehab is surely ten times worse, what with the yelling and the withdrawal and the voices and everything else.

The secondary moral would perhaps be to drop your manuscript in the correct genre pile when swinging by the publisher's office.

Either way, we're over it.

Since his public disgrace in 2006, Frey has come out with his latest literary contribution, a novel (yep) called Bright Shiny Morning. Within the first few pages, Frey immediately comes out with the disclaimer that states:

"This is a work of fiction. References to real people and locations are used fictitiously. All other names, characters and places, and all dialogue and events, are the product of the author's imagination."

Well how's that for covering your bases. If all two billion of us didn't know better, we might think that Frey made up Los Angeles altogether.

Los Angeles mostly because that's the blissful location that Frey uses for the setting in his 2008 novel. (I can't help it, I smile every time I write it).

So I guess to begin, the questions start with, why California? Why do so many musicians write songs about California? About escaping there, playing there, relaxing there, driving through/towards there? Why are almost all movies that are not set in New York set in California? Why the flocking, why the obsession, why the dazed looks as we sit there and stare off thinking, yeah, now that's the place to be.

Well, I can start by telling you I've always tended to be one of those people. I'm a gazer. And part of the infatuation has always been the unknown. It's not really (just) the fame or the money or the industries that thrive there. Rather it's living in a world outside such things that makes us curious. That, plus the beaches. Oh, and Ditty Riese. (Trust me, if you've been there, you know).

So Frey, all wrapped up in creating fiction, decided to write about and for an audience that is in love with the fantasy of California. He reached into the character jar, picked out a slew of losers, addicts, victims, wannabes, threw them across the page, tossed in a hopeless and/or devastating situation every so often, and called it life. Life in Los Angeles, that is.

Because, seemingly, according to Frey, life in Los Angeles is just that: devastating, and a farce. Everyone dreams about it because that's all it is. Everyone dreams about breaking through or in or out because nobody ever does. They go driving or flying or walking with no money and no place and no job, but oh well, because they have huge hopes. The hugest. And to read Frey's words is to feel mocked, pointed and laughed at for thinking California is anything more than a landing space for modern-day hippies, traveling actors, street venders, American Apparel employees.

We've been tricked.

These are your neighborhood waitresses. Your gas station attendents. Your janitors. These are your classmates who dropped out to be divas talk show hosts singers porn stars junkies. They are in one-man plays that open and then close, they are clerks at the ninety-nine cent store they are maids they go to night school.

Bottom line, guys, I think Frey's making fun of us. I think he's calling California a huge old phony and trying to force us to agree. Throughout Bright Shiny Morning, the characters remain somewhat bland, a little boring, mostly outlines of what could turn out to be anybody's story. And while that bothered me at first, about halfway through, I realized that Frey did this because that entirely was (and wasn't?) the point.

Now, maybe that's giving Frey or anyone a little too much credit. But I think what he's really saying is, hey, look over here, California seems pretty great, it seems pretty promising, it seems pretty huge and infallible and beautiful and the perfect place to start anew.

And then they lose everything. And then their best friend is shot. And then they blow their third audition that day. And then they hate their life. And then they hate their life. And then they hate their life.

So why do we want it so bad? Why do we take all of those statistics, those people who went to be directors or models, to be discovered, to be a one-hit wonder, and believe ourselves to be better or different or more committed? Is it because we want the Freys of the world to be wrong? Do we want to say to them, from way up high on that Hollywood stage, who's laughing now, Mr. Nobody-Makes-It?

Is it because we really believe that, despite all the failure that does take place, that if it's going to happen anywhere (and it is), it's going to happen there (probably so).

Or maybe Frey is just bitter. Maybe his harsh exposure turned him, maybe there was just never enough success, maybe he wanted a book-turned-movie, maybe he's writing about me me me, maybe he's assuming we'll understand this, nod knowingly, coax him along, buy this book off the shelves, say, Come on, James, give us more, we love you! we love you! we love you!

Because that's really just it, right. Fame is adoration is love is happiness. Right?

Oh, geez. Cut to me getting way ahead of myself and all selves and all things.

We'll define happiness another day. For now, Mr. Frey: On behalf of everyone who has ever inhabited, been to, or dreamed about going to California, we apologize if She has ever hurt your feelings. We're sorry if your apartment isn't statuesque or your paychecks seem small, if book sales seem down.

But here's what you might have overlooked: all this unbelievable pressure that we've put on California to sustain us, to satisfy us, to give us something out of the ordinary, something to strive for, is it any wonder that she should crack now and then under the burden of so many aspirations? Sure, there's room for everyone, but somebody's going to have to stay average. Someone's going to have to bag the grocercies and babysit the kids. I know, I know, if it was going to be anyone you didn't think it'd be you.

But here you are. Getting paid by the hour, having roommates, writing when you have the time, escaping now and then, hoping someone notices, someday.

So keep trying. James might laugh. Something like a sardonic cackle.

But I promise I won't. I might find it difficult to believe you want to write a hit vampire movie or be a backup dancer for Britney.

Either way, these are your dreams. Let the last person to stop you be a begrudged, balding (and yes, talented) writer. We have enough problems of our own.

Part I: What do you mean, James Frey?

Alright, so I quite expect that the whole James-Frey-exposed-as-a-liar scandal needs no real re-introduction. However, just in case you were unaware or have forgotten, back in 2006, author James Frey was accused, (accusations that he all admitted to), or perhaps rather found out, for writing a novel under the guise of a fully accurate memoir. Namely, A Million Little Pieces.

Oh, you remember now? Oh great.

Now, my biggest question in the entire situation was why Frey, a writer, a person who is given daily opportunity, is encouraged to, is in fact paid to lie, would decide to claim that his newest book was entirely truthful. He didn't have to, did he? He didn't have to categorize it as a memoir, did he? Wouldn't saying, Yes, here's my newest novel, have been entirely acceptable? Besides, that's what books are, right? They're made up, aren't they? (I know, I know, any unfortunate fellow writer who has happened upon this page is either shaking their head or their fist at me, Damn you, Helen, for suggesting that we don't write from our experience!)

Of course you do. You all do. I do it every day.

But writing from your experience may mean that you have taken that awful moment from a high school dance, rearranged it, changed a few names, made your dress an awful Pepto pink instead of that dark green velvet you loved so well, and tossed it towards the character of your newest attempt. A character who is obviously not you, but whose memories and thoughts and ambitions seem to mirror yours, compliment yours, defy yours, or embody yours. There is nothing wrong with this. This is, instead, I must say, the only way to achieve brilliantly real writing. We know when it's completely fabricated. Don't ask us how, but we know. Something intricate or deep is missing, something is forced, something is unexplained. We have always read best by the truth.

In all this, Frey made it clear that he wrote from an experience that was true, but that he embellished in order to avoid being labeled as "the bad guy." Well. Naughty as that may have been, I wonder how many of us are truly willing to pick at our very worst moments, at our ugliest outcomes and poorest choices, display them in their most raw form, and then let the world take a peek. Takers? Anyone?

I know it's been done. But I suppose that for some reason or another, this was something Frey just wasn't ready for, didn't feel capable of standing. So he lied. So he changed a few faces, protected himself a little, and called it the truth.

And I might say, so what. So he made a mistake, so it wasn't all as he said, but it never really is. And that's okay. It was a difficult story to tell. There were wounds involved, there were shortcomings. Scratch that, there were huge failures.

And I know, I know, you're thinking, well, what the hell, we all have such things, some worse than even that, should we just lie to protect our faces, to save our dignity, whatever that means?

Sure. But just call it a novel. Or a story, or a poem. We'll know if you're telling the truth, so you don't have to tell us if you really are. And you don't have to say it's about you, how you came home crying and your mother continued to wash the dishes, about how you felt free the day of high school graduation, about the night you lost your virginity, anything. You can say it's about a friend you had, or a story you heard once on the news, or someone else, anyone else, but not you. Just tell us what happened. Nothing more is required.

So, James Frey, wherever you are, I'm really not mad at you. In fact, I thought your book was excellent. I purchased it back in 2006, and didn't actually get to start reading it until after the whole issue broke forth. I have to say, it gave me more of an incentive to pick it up. I wondered, what's this all about, this memoir/novel/liar that has everyone all huffy and upset, that has Oprah using the word "duped" twice in one sentence? And I thought your words were heartbreaking, in a way that was entirely right. And telling the entire truth has its place, and if you didn't feel that this was one of those times, then we, the reading (and writing) community, will stand by you, and officiate that you had your reasons, that they were personal and necessary and allowable. We appreciate your apology. From me, personally, though, I don't think we needed it.

All that to say, I just finished Frey's most recent novel, Bright Shiny Morning. Which, next post, will lead us to Part II.

And don't worry; if you assume this is all in defense of Frey's dignity as an author, that I find him flawless and unrightfully scorned, finishing his newest piece has left me with one (weird) nagging question: does Frey hate the American dream?