A Million Little Books to Sell

I am not here to bury James Frey, but to praise the author of the much maligned "A Million Little Pieces." Here's a pretty average white guy who turned a rather unexceptional middle class mid-western upbringing into a franchise of fakedom. Mr. Frey is my hero.

All this time I thought you had to suffer to sing the blues. I used to rue my happy and unremarkable childhood. Drat my parents who afforded me a standard public school education, a university degree and the ability to accept my first job as a low paid television station receptionist. I've always lamented how my Dad didn't beat me, that my Mom wouldn't force feed me beets and brussel sprouts or how she never neglected to buy me the appropriately supportive footwear (although forcing me to wear Zelnick's orthopedic shoes in 2nd grade was its own private hell.) Woe, how bland my life! I knew I hadn't lived the stuff of great writing. Now, I only damn James Frey for taking away my greatest reason for creative procrastination. My commonplace youth is apparently no longer an impediment to writing a "horribly honest" memoir.

In the interest of full disclosure I must confess I have not read "A Million Little Pieces." Really. That's the truth. Check my bookshelf or the top of my toilet tank. But, let's examine just one "embellishment." Take the whole jail-time confusion. So Mr. Frey took some literary license and wrote that he was in the pokey for 87 days. Technically it was closer to just one day. Hours.. days.. months. Sometimes it's so hard to tell in the dankness of the big house. We can all lose perspective on time. Think how you've recounted an excruciatingly dull family function with these words, "We were there forever! It was an eternity before they fed us and the pot roast tasted like a boot." Did you really mean you were there longer than a Golden Globes acceptance speech? Have you ever eaten a boot?

Now one might think that the name of Mr. Frey's tome has become an unfortunate one considering the turn of events. So many people are cleverly calling the book --A Million Little Lies. He should embrace it, that's a great name for his sequel. And everyone should just lighten up on ole Jimmy. He lives in Los Angeles, the epicenter of an entire industry (okay, literary license) built around 'inspired by true events.' It's called Hollywood. And they often make lots of money. Remember these are the same folks who call the television programs Survivor and The Biggest Loser, 'reality.' No wonder he was confused.

Personally, I think part of Mr. Frey's problem is an issue so deeply rooted, so subconsciously embedded, even he hasn't unearthed it: the pronunciation of his name. It's spelled Frey and therefore should be pronounce to rhyme with the color grey (or is it gray?) Instead, he pronounces it Fry, as in you're a two-bit small-fry author. The confusion must have taken an enormous emotional toll on the first day of school every single year of his childhood as teachers mangled his name. Or maybe it's that Truman Capote-ish lilt to his voice. Note that Capote's greatest book was "In Cold Blood," which he himself labeled a "non-fiction novel."

It’s worth noting that even after getting that big ole Oprah whooping, his book is still in the top ten on Amazon. If Jimmy plays his cards right he could be the J.K. Rowlings of a brand new genre of writing. My Dad calls it "enhanced biography" or "novelography." It'd be defined by NOT letting the facts get in the way of a good story. Maybe make it into literary challenge game - liked a "Fact-Finding Waldo" exercise. The winner gets to be written into the author's sequel or gets to revoke the author's literary license.