I am reposting this from my MySpace blog, because it makes me angry.
A month or so ago I read this book A Million Little Pieces which I loved. I loved it because it was well written and because it made me feel things that I haven't felt due to a book in a long time. I loved it because it was a memoir and I wanted to hug James Frey (the author) and tell him I was proud of him for making it through all the things he had been through. I wanted to thank him for writing an incredible piece of non-fiction, for having the courage to tell his story and put it out there, regardless of the consequences. Right now I want to punch James Frey square in the jaw.
But let me backtrack for a minute. Maybe you all haven't heard of this book and all the drama surrounding it right now. James Frey wrote a "memoir" about being a 23-year-old crack addicted alcoholic. He wrote this amazing (truly) book about his experiences, all the things he went through, the things he put himself through, the things he put his friends through. I had to stop reading, many many times, because some of these things made me literally want to vomit. I don't think anyone I've read has ever described things as graphically as Frey. He struggles and he overcomes. Every page was more unbelievable than the last, and each time I though, "good lord, this man has seen some shit. I am amazed he is alive. I can't believe he did all the things he did to his body and lived through. I can't believe he remembers it all well enough to write a factual non-fiction memoir of those days."
Oh, wait. Memoirs are non-fiction? I guess James Frey missed that day in fucking english class. This fucking asshole has been lying through his motherfucking teeth about the majority of his book. Oh Wait, Almost Nothing That Is Imparative To The Story Is True!
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure this isn't the first time some asshole has fictionalized his life, called it a memoir or non-fiction, and sold that shit. I'm sure it's been done a million times before and will be done again and again and again. But not everyone had Oprah pimping them out like crazy, making their book a best seller, and helping them line their pockets with thousands upon thousands (at least!) of dollars.
I feel like an idiot. I feel like an idiot even though I know there is no way I could have possibly known that this James Frey was a liar. But I mean, I told my relapsed alcoholic friend to read his book. I told him, "if this guy can make it through his shit, anyone can make it through anything." And now I'm left with the knowledge that It Was All Lies.
Damn you. Damn you for doing what is so morally wrong. As a writer, someone who aspires to someday be published and paid for all the sweat and hard work I put into every word I write professionally, I hate you. Oh how I hate you.
(But I mean, as it stands, the book is still a good book. I just wish he would have been straight up and told us all it was fiction. Come on man, be real.)
A month or so ago I read this book A Million Little Pieces which I loved. I loved it because it was well written and because it made me feel things that I haven't felt due to a book in a long time. I loved it because it was a memoir and I wanted to hug James Frey (the author) and tell him I was proud of him for making it through all the things he had been through. I wanted to thank him for writing an incredible piece of non-fiction, for having the courage to tell his story and put it out there, regardless of the consequences. Right now I want to punch James Frey square in the jaw.
But let me backtrack for a minute. Maybe you all haven't heard of this book and all the drama surrounding it right now. James Frey wrote a "memoir" about being a 23-year-old crack addicted alcoholic. He wrote this amazing (truly) book about his experiences, all the things he went through, the things he put himself through, the things he put his friends through. I had to stop reading, many many times, because some of these things made me literally want to vomit. I don't think anyone I've read has ever described things as graphically as Frey. He struggles and he overcomes. Every page was more unbelievable than the last, and each time I though, "good lord, this man has seen some shit. I am amazed he is alive. I can't believe he did all the things he did to his body and lived through. I can't believe he remembers it all well enough to write a factual non-fiction memoir of those days."
Oh, wait. Memoirs are non-fiction? I guess James Frey missed that day in fucking english class. This fucking asshole has been lying through his motherfucking teeth about the majority of his book. Oh Wait, Almost Nothing That Is Imparative To The Story Is True!
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure this isn't the first time some asshole has fictionalized his life, called it a memoir or non-fiction, and sold that shit. I'm sure it's been done a million times before and will be done again and again and again. But not everyone had Oprah pimping them out like crazy, making their book a best seller, and helping them line their pockets with thousands upon thousands (at least!) of dollars.
I feel like an idiot. I feel like an idiot even though I know there is no way I could have possibly known that this James Frey was a liar. But I mean, I told my relapsed alcoholic friend to read his book. I told him, "if this guy can make it through his shit, anyone can make it through anything." And now I'm left with the knowledge that It Was All Lies.
Damn you. Damn you for doing what is so morally wrong. As a writer, someone who aspires to someday be published and paid for all the sweat and hard work I put into every word I write professionally, I hate you. Oh how I hate you.
(But I mean, as it stands, the book is still a good book. I just wish he would have been straight up and told us all it was fiction. Come on man, be real.)
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Did I tell you that I don't even remember anything that happened at your last party? Yup. It's true...