By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
James Frey's A Million Little Pieces has been on TheNew York Times' nonfiction best-seller list for something like four months, propelled in part by its election to literary sainthood, the Oprah Book Club. Frey's dramatic account of his life as an alcoholic, drug addict and criminal is now famous for a different reason: an exposé by thesmokinggun.com that concluded "the 36-year-old author . . . wholly fabricated or wildly embellished details of his purported criminal career, jail terms and status as an outlaw 'wanted in three states.'"
After denials and even a threat to sue the Smoking Gun, Frey admitted he made up significant parts of his "autobiography." Both his publisher, Doubleday, and Oprah Winfrey have defended him. Oprah went so far as to call CNN's Larry King during his interview with Frey last week. Sure he represented as true events that were entirely made up, Oprah said. "But the underlying message of redemption in James Frey's memoir still resonates with me, and I know it resonates with millions of other people who have read this book."
In 1997, Doubleday published my book, which we called John Wayne: A Novel. John Wayne, the actor, was one of the characters, and so was every member of my immediate family, and the Orange County where the story takes place is one almost every native would recognize. The novel was, for the most part, true, in other words. I made up some details about Wayne, just like I made up some details about my family, but I think I could have published the stuff about my family as memoir and the stuff about Wayne as, well, docudrama, I guess: I don't know, for example, what the young Duke and Marlene Dietrich said during their affair, but I know some things that Wayne said about her later in life, things that suggest what it might have been like.
But those two words—"a novel"—were there for a reason. I wanted readers to know that this was an act of imagination, even though my mother, Lillian Barden, was called "Lillian Barden" in the book and in life. Although I was certainly playing with notions of memoir and fiction—just as the title suggested—I was disturbed to be asked maybe 50 times during my book tour, "What kind of book is it?" I would say, "Well, it's a novel." And people would always say the same thing, somewhat smugly, I thought: "I know that, but is it fiction or nonfiction?"
For the most part, my explanation—that novels are always, by definition, fiction—just went over everyone's head. And I had to admit that most people in this country, and not all of them ignorant, don't even know what a novel is. More than that, they disputed the very possibility of a novel. Maybe they just didn't believe in the possibility of imagination: if you wrote this, they seemed to think, it must have happened exactly that way.
I have since tested this hypothesis with my college students. I find that even the best of them think novels are "true" in a way that the very word "fiction" tells them they aren't.
Having barely survived the spectacle of a presidential election in which the decorated war hero was represented as an equivocating coward and the draft-dodging failed businessman with an appetite for uniforms was called a war hero, I have to ask myself if maybe I'm the one who doesn't understand. Karl Rove, who is still one of the most powerful men in America, doesn't trouble himself with the distinction between fiction and nonfiction, and maybe I shouldn't either.
Maybe the terms of the conversation have changed. I really mean it: maybe truth is fiction and fiction is truth. If this were really true, it would certainly be a millennial shift. In a society where many people under 30 get their news from Jon Stewart, this makes a kind of profound sense. I'm not saying that's wrong, just inevitable.
Power has always been in the hands of the people who can tell the best stories. When I'm honest with myself, I do think that fiction is often truer than nonfiction—was it Camus who said that art is a lie that gets at the truth?—and I would trust a fictional account of a battle more than a journalist's report.
What's new is that everyone knows this. We're no longer a country of dupes. Rather, we are a country of collaborators. The "willing suspension of disbelief" has become much more than a description of a literary/psychological process; it's become a political and social credo.
My own odd distinction is to be a writer who knows more about John Wayne than anyone but a handful of people, and so I have cut my teeth on this distinction. No one who believed in the Duke as a political figure during the '60s and '70s actually thought that he had ever fought in a war. What they believed was that the values he projected were more pertinent to the truth of their lives than the facts that this or that genuine war hero might have to share.