I once did blow with Peter Tork, I'm the illegitimate child of Marlon Brando, and I was once led police on a high speed chase through four states.
Well, er, not quite.
But who the fuck cares? I'm a reformed ice cream addict, this is the essential truth of my life as I saw it through the haze of Cookies n' Cream. So what if I embellished it? It's just a memoir, a memory of my life, subject to my interpretation of it.
I can stretch the truth too and be on Oprah. Hell, I don't need to make up anything. What I've been through since 2001 would be enough to fill two books. But for someone like, oh, an unknown author who initially tried to peddle his "memoir" as "fiction" but could only sell it as "non-fiction" once he ramped up some little nigging details, it's okay! Jason Blair be damned!
So what if the police record isn't true and a lot of other details that made Oprah and millions of other readers go ga-ga. And what the hell is she going to say now that cat is out of the bag? Well, the "essence" of the book is true!
Well, ya know, I could write a memoir about how in a drug induced haze, I burned and ate a kitten. Okay, I never ate a kitten. Okay, I was never in a drug induced haze.
BUT I COULD HAVE AND IF I HAD, THIS WOULD BE THE ESSENCE OF IT.
What's the matter with these so-called writers? Did they graduate from the McDonald School of Journalism?