on the issue of james frey and his book a million little pieces i must first say that the particulars of the issue are of little concern to me...but i feel compelled to say something...my something is the following...
writers are notoriously lazy and suffer from ever-swelling egos...
why it should surprise anyone that a writer would "embellish" or just flat out make up events, people, and facts in a memoir is beyond me...
there are no two ways about it, if a writer can say it better they will...those who don't, well it doesn't matter now does it because we haven't ever heard of them and likely never will...
i have long held the opinion that any written work, like any art work or piece of music, matters only in its ability to capture some emotion, moment in time, or induce processes of thought or feeling...
anything else is irrelevant...
though don't tell the writer the artist or the musician...they seem to think there is more to it than that...oh, but please let us not dispel the myth should they suddenly get the idea they'd like to talk about their work...or good god even worse, about themselves!!...
i defy you to find one person in this world who tells their own story just. the. way. it. happened.
especially if that person happens to have even one ounce of ability to commit thought to word and word to paper...
happy hunting, and if you don't cry, throw-up, and pee your pants while reading my yet to be written memoir THEN get to see it come to life on the big screen in every city in the country then i will consider myself a failure...
certainly not when someone else deems me as such...
but for the sake of the collective soul that crys out for something more, something beyond the things we all know for sure, please, don't ask and i promise not to tell...
because there is pure grace in illusion...and when we seek to discover the truth and nothing but the truth, we miss the magic...
and without the magic we are nothing more than mere silly mortals...
x.
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