Hello, Sprinkles. I have been waiting forever to write another entry in my blog. Now that it is officially summer, I am ready to sit in front of my laptop and peel every single layer of my story until I’m down to its most naked, raw core. Kind of like a sunburn (Here I go with the similes and the incognito metaphors). Since the semester finally came to its trudging stop, I have inquired a latest obsession with my Netflix account in which I spend continuous hours watching Weeds and Dexter and (most importantly) I have rekindled my love with my collection of Jodi Piccoult novels.
But after being absent from the blogger world for nearly a week, I have decided to dedicate this entry to share a fond memory. Unlike my latest blogging fetish, my sophomore year was fully dedicated to my reading. I had picked up a book entitled, “Where the Heart Is” only to notice that it had been acknowledged as an acclaimed piece for Oprah’s Book Club. Billy Letts’s novel, most commonly recognized as the story about the Wal-Mart baby, became my personal favorite. I read it repeatedly five times. I became so familiar with the novel that I could simply flip through its pages and single out my favorite quotes. I picked up another book that was part of Oprah’s Book Club and thus I started a reeling goal to read every single book that was on Oprah’s list of critical masterpieces—from the deep, dramatic novelist, Wally Lamb to the poetic, short-story writer, Tim O’Brien.
I remember this clearly—I was sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table thumbing through, “The Things They Carried” when CNN broadcasted the latest rumor that the memoir, “A Million Little Pieces” by James Frey was entirely fabricated. I stared at the screen that displayed a picture of the memoir and listened to the most outrageous raucous that we call “news.” The book’s cover had caught my attention a few times during my frequent trips to the local Barnes and Nobles, so I was vaguely familiar with Frey. I was not completely entitled to an opinion at that moment at my grandmother’s kitchen table, but I was surely going to change that.
I considered it-- as ridiculous as it may sound—an ironic sort- of- fate. “A Million Little Pieces” had been on Oprah’s Book Club’s list! It was my first memoir and I was completely enthralled with James’s writing. At first, I had to adjust to his format. He wrote without using proper punctuation and instead left sentences choppy and short as if they were broken up, get this, into little pieces. He had the reverence of a poet and wrote with a benediction in mind. His memoir documented his time in Rehab. Therefore; the entire piece was rather brutal. The language was vulgar and had a bawdy humor to it. After reading Frey’s memoir thoroughly, I had realized that I could not, and adamantly would not, believe that any of its’ content was “fabricated.”
So, I did further research. I had waited for James Frey to make an appearance on Oprah’s talk show only to watch her belligerently attack Frey for “fooling his readers.” It was there that she announced that Frey’s memoir would no longer be part of her acclaimed list of novels. And furthermore, I found out that bookstores were making bargains with costumers that had purchased the memoir: If the customer had purchased the book a month prior to the news of its’ stated “fabricated content” the costumer could return the memoir with the receipt and receive full credit back. Lets make a ridiculous assumption and assume that maybe some of the content was indeed falsified, it is still creditably his work and deserves to be awarded. It does not matter whether the story may be entirely true, it is a story nonetheless and every story deserves some credit. I tried to imagine how difficult it may be to keep a poignant documented record of events during a time of rehabilitation. It is safe to say that James must had been at times, rather distorted and secluded from society, so not all of his memories of his trip with crystal meth will be CRYSTAL clear.
That summer I wrote a rather lengthy letter. I had spent days on end trying to find any sort of contact information that might lead me through a bee line to Frey. In the letter I wrote I gave him my utmost opinion, I annotated my favorite parts in his memoirs and related it to the controversy that had sparked in the media, and then I praised him and his work. His assistant, Joyce, replied to an email I had sent her and told me that my letter was “by far inspirational.” She had also informed me that she would directly hand it to James.
All through June I waited with much apprehension for Joyce to contact me. In July I had received a package. The envelope was worn and bore a vast amount of stamps on its face. Inside was a copy of “A Million Little Pieces” and on its inside cover was a letter from James. I recognized his style—the lack of punctuation, the short but yet straight thoughts. “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.” he continued at the end. I knew at that instant I had accomplished what I wanted to do. I had given James Frey a piece of positivity that he could add to his own millions.
James had become my own personal pen-pal. He had sent his first rough draft of the novel he was going to make and credited me. I was honored to say the least. But what I found most treasuring was the fact that he told me that none of his documented writings was fabricated. In fact, the only thing that James had changed were the characters’ name for personal privacy and the true details of Lily’s death. And that, I will keep to myself, bloggers. But trust me, trust me, trust me.
Song of the day: PlayRadioPlay!’s (I’m not sure if this band can still be searched as “PlayRadioPlay!” because the name had changed sometime in the long run when I lost touch with Dan’s music. If not, try “Analogous Rebellion.”) Decipher Reflections from Reality. It’s the song I had discussed with James as a musical reflection on his written piece. Analogous Rebellion is a one-man-band from Fort Worth, Texas ---not necessarily considered “underground” but it surely is not recognized as much as it should be.
