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?