PressEthic

The life of the average human being, which has elapsed without interruption by tremendous tragedy, personal triumph, accomplishment, or significant social influence, may not seem worthy of documentation. A reader, not to mention a publisher, could assume that one's life should possess something extraordinary to warrant the time and money needed to report, write, and distribute text on the subject. I have not read James Frey's self-professed memoir "A Million Little Pieces", but I have been unable to escape the din surrounding it. The New York Times recently reported that the author, who has since admitted to exaggerating and fabricating portions of his book, and his publisher Random House have settled their lawsuit with disgruntled readers demanding refunds. According to the article:

Readers in several states, including New York, California, and Illinois, filed lawsuits saying that Mr. Frey and the publisher had defrauded them by selling the book as a memoir rather than as a work of fiction.

I knew that Frey's offense had been enough to initiate a televised verbal beat down by Oprah and her book club army of Midwestern housewives, but I was unaware that there was a lawsuit against the author and his publisher on the basis that readers felt they were "defrauded". According to The Smoking Gun, Frey had initially attempted to have the book published as fiction but was turned down by publishers. In this sense it would seem that the writing and tales themselves did not warrant an audience, but it was the reality of personal experience that made the book worthy of publication and the hard earned cash of the reading public.

Perhaps if Mr. Frey had published his book as fiction, as he initially intended, and assumed a clever pseudonym in the vein of Bukowski's Henry Chinaski, readers would not have been so up in arms. Of course, I doubt he would he would have caught the attention of Oprah's televised book mobile, and therefore would not have sold as many copies. Based on the response of his readers, it would seem that any reaction or connection they had to the book was based solely on the idea that it was fact. However, should the author not be allowed to take certain liberties when reporting on the events of his/her own life? Three years ago I took a personal essay writing class at the New School where my instructor informed us that, in this medium of creative non-fiction, such liberties were allowed. That while we were to be reporting on actual events of our lives, certain creative licenses could be indulged for the betterment of the story, to bring strength to the illustration of events.

If I were reading the memoirs of a politician or world leader and they were relating accounts of political strategy or actions of war or government, I might expect the text to be accurate in its telling. Yet, it does not seem that tales of substance abuse, crime, and various other degradations intrinsically warrant unwavering adherence to truth. Based on the accounts of the book that I have read and heard retold, it seems improbable that anyone who actually lived through some of the ordeals related in the book would have any clear recollection of the events or even the ability to form coherent sentences.

It is assumed that a memoir, which is meant to report on the events of the author's life or by someone with intimate knowledge of the events retold, is grounded in fact. Yet when reading such non-fiction works, I have always assumed a margin of embellishment. When looking back over the events of one's life, the author may be forced to supplement memory lapses with definitively fictitious additives. Perhaps it is the quantity of fiction introduced to a work of fact that creates the ethical issue. According to the article by the Smoking Gun:

Police reports, court records, interviews with law enforcement personnel, and other sources have put the lie to many key sections of Frey's book. The 36-year-old author, these documents and interviews show, wholly fabricated or wildly embellished details of his purported criminal career, jail terms, and status as an outlaw "wanted in three states."

The breadth of Frey's embellishments seems to define the scope of his transgression. Yet, the fact that not all the readers of "A Million Little Pieces" joined in the lawsuit or felt defrauded by the work suggests that there are readers, like myself, who would not allow the creative liberties taken by the author to infringe upon the overall impact of the work. The dispute seems to stem from the distinction between readers who view the memoir as a work of pure non-fiction and those who deem it a work of creative non-fiction. Beyond any legal repercussions, the argument surrounding James Frey's book brings light to the blurry line between fiction and non-fiction that can arise in creative works.

It is assumed that a large portion of Bukowski's work is autobiographical. Therefore, knowing that Henry Chinaski and Charles Bukowski are not identical does not detract from the grit and intrigue of his tales. As a reader, I am appeased enough in the knowledge that Bukowski loved his cheap wine, loose women, and had a strange affinity for the shape of his legs. These similarities are enough to connect the story with the author and leave me amazed he survived as long as he did. Perhaps James Frey could have avoided the backlash of his fictionalization by simply making note that such embellishments existed.

Even if there may exist an ethical dilemma with selling certain fictions as fact, the medium of the memoir seems to lend itself to a certain level of ambiguity. I would argue that it would be the responsibility of the publisher, not the author, to ensure that readers were not misled into paying for something that was misrepresented. However, if the story itself was strong enough to cause this kind of reaction, perhaps Mr. Frey did his job. And thanks to the voices of Oprah and other disgruntled readers, his "fraudulent" work is selling very well.