Your story is yours

This week I surfaced an email I wrote 17 years ago to the author James Frey. His memoir, A Million Little Pieces, had recently been torn to a billion tiny shreds by Oprah Winfrey and her pack of razor-toothed worshipers.

I’ll give you a bit of context and then let my youthful burst of indignation tell the story.

This book and its sequel, My Friend Leonard, were the most powerful I had read up to that point in my young life. I’d never before spontaneously sobbed at the turn of a page. (I can only recall it happening once since, reading Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life.)

But evidently the way James told some of the story—his story—didn’t line up precisely, chronologically or facts-wise, with how some other people remembered it, and this conspiracy site Smoking Gun launched a successful campaign to bring it down. ‘Successful’ because goddamn Oprah got wind and, having already put her venerated Book Club stamp on the thing, felt she needed to publicly confront and humiliate him.

I recall the interview only vaguely, having seen just a brief clip (I can’t imagine where since there was no YouTube or TikTok yet, no reels… god, could it have been the actual news??). I couldn’t stomach more than that. But it was enough to catch her smug accusation: “so you lied.” And James—sweaty, devastated, worn down, backed into a corner—sighing an exhausted “Yes.”

He hadn’t though. He … never mind, again, read the letter.

I was actually surprised and heartened to discover how my 28-year-old self seems to have held the same values—passionately, even—that I do now. Generally I tend to dismiss any version of myself from more than a year or two ago, fancying my ongoing development so deep and extreme that previous editions of me, like operating systems, are moot (cute way to live, Joy). Finding this shows me that when it comes to witnessing people’s creations, I am—have always been—quite solid in how I will receive them, advocate for them, cherish them.

Not that there hasn’t been growth. For instance, I assure James that I had no issues with substance abuse, which it turns out I was in some denial about—and therefore, perhaps, felt the need to state right up front. It was my story at the time. (Also, it’s possible that sexism, racism, and ableism show up in this book. I haven’t read it in years and am only starting to again. If that’s the case—I hope it isn’t—I am not defending any of that, only the story.)

Anyway, this is a kind of an extreme example of the “why-would-I-put-anything-out-there-if-this-is-the-kind-of-crap-that-happens?” mentality that robs the world of so much artistry, catharsis, and really good stories. This is what has our knees and hands rightly shake at the prospect of exposing our souls to the world.

As I ponder (vehemently) in the letter, who knows why this happened to James. Clearly someone with a glut of time and resources felt very threatened. Clearly James’s writing had such a deep impact that it drove someone wild with fear. It is not the norm, but it happens.

Memory is subjective. Facts aside, you know what is true for how it stirs you, rings in you, affects you. And, as we’re seeing here, it’s possible it’ll have some deep impact in the world as well.

What is more believable than that?

Dear James,

I’m not 100% up to speed with everything that’s going on right now, as I tend to isolate myself from the media – due more or less to scandalous crap like this that happens all too frequently – but I do have a general idea of what’s been happening to you and am ill from it. I write to you as someone who sees your books as the best pieces of literature I’ve ever read. As someone who has absolutely no family or personal experience with alcohol or drug issues, and hence no bias on that level. I am a writer, and if there was an angle from which I approached your work it was that. I am in awe of your voice, your free writing style which I know must have invoked much of the truth that is so palpable in the work, the rawness, honesty, pain, generosity, and healing that come across. I, and I’m sure everyone who has read it, related to your book on the very basal level of emotion – you managed to pare down your language, experiences, thoughts, descriptions so that they all worked together to evoke nothing but blunt images and feelings that are all relatable and real. You quite literally bared your soul. No writer has done it like you did – at least not one that I can think of. The work was beautiful and your life, as you painted it in this book, has been a beautiful one. Painfully, hideously, dramatically, wonderfully beautiful.

What won me over about your work are these things, and not the information, not the details, not the history. I’m not sure I can adequately express my confusion, sorrow and loathing over the bullshit accusations you’re now facing. How could anyone read Pieces, close it at the end and go, “Know what? That was all nonsense. Furthermore, I will embark upon a hard-line campaign to disprove everything he said.” What kind of agenda would someone have to spend their time and talent trying to undermine your success? How cynical and life-denying and soulless must one be? And why is it just you? Why aren’t they setting about disproving every author who’s written a memoir in the 20th century? For example, I’m sure that there are records to back up every word written by, say, Hunter S. Thompson? Come on. The only people I know of that have less than adored the book have been not people who can’t relate, but for people to whom this stuff is too close and they’re not yet ready to face it. Defensive people not prepared for the excruciating journey on which you and your family have been. It also occurred to me that maybe there is some tie to AA or an enemies of Leonard that need people not to believe you. Need to stop the masses from following in your example of personal truth for fear they will turn from the brainwashed flock. But I won’t get into conspiracy theory because that is a small and petty way to think – too akin to your accusers.

I don’t know, I began an angry and confused letter to the dudes at Smoking Gun but realized it was probably better if we all – you and your fans – stay the bigger people, unaffected as much as we can by sensationalism, cynicism, and those who try so hard to promote hate. Your book was love – an act of self-love, love of the friends you immortalized, and love of everyone who read it and who gets it. Who gets you and where you’re coming from. I wanted to simply assure you that I am and will remain one of those people. I know of many more who will never doubt you and I know we’re not alone.

You told your truth. And therefore it is THE truth. I won’t even get into the technicalities about memoir versus other types of writing … it’s all minutia and it’s not worth it. What you did was immense – great on a global level – and like anyone who revolutionizes how the world might think about something, the fearful will attempt to turn the world against you. And sure, the idiots will turn. Good, weed them out. Keep it real. Like you said – let the haters hate, but don’t let them get inside. I know you won’t. They need to live a few more lives to get it. You’ve gotten it and you’ve made a lot of us get it. We won’t let go of it.

With respect, support and love,

Joy

Epilogue: turns out his publisher did forward this to him, and the following day this was in my inbox:

Subject: Thank you

For your note, and your support. It’s been a long shitty ten days. Hearing from readers like is helping me deal with it.

All my best -

J

Your story is yours. Write it.