Memory (and not just Frey's) is a Funny Little Thing

I watched Oprah's CYA episode with James Frey, where she retracted her support of his book, " A Million Little Pieces" and confronted him about misrepresenting the story as factual. Good for her.

He looked like he just couldn't wait for the show to just end, and it was interesting watching his fluttery editor try to justify her role. She actually defended the memoir as being based solely on his memory of events and therefore not requiring fact-checking that would normally accompany a work of nonfiction. This rationalization seemed especially thin when James weakly admitted he "thinks" he had two root canals without anesthesia. Laughably pathetic.

However, there is something to be said about the quirkiness of memory. This was illustrated to me less than a month ago when my mom, brother and I recently discussed. the death of our family dog which took place more than ten years ago. It was surprising to realize that we all had very different recollections of the event. We each had found a moment that had stood out in our minds, and let other details fade into nonexistence.

The fact was this: Max, an 11 year-old golden retriever, died peacefully at the foot of the staircase in the entryway of my parents home.

What stood out for my Mom was that he didn't follow her up the stairs as he usually did, and the next time she came downstairs, he was dead. She insisted that she was home alone at the time.

My brother remembers being the first to find him, and being the one who took him outside and burying him on our property. He didn't recall me or my Dad being in the house.

I remember Shawn finding the dog and that both of my parents were upstairs, while I was in the kitchen. I was struck by how touching it was that Max died peacefully in the center of the house while we were all present, caught up in our own routines. Neither my brother or I lived there, but we would sometimes show up there to fix a quick lunch before heading back to work. My Dad was never home at that time, but on this particular day, we all happened to be in the house. My Dad is no longer here to share his version, and we will probably never fully agree on what actually happened that day.
Over time, perspective altered the facts in our minds.

Frey's editor couldn't possibly excuse this book as merely his perspective of events. He made up fantastical lies to create a more compelling story and he never anticipated he would have to make the distinction between fact and fiction.

The irony of it all is that the book was so resonant and popular because it subscribed to the notion that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Reading it as fiction, it seems riddled with too many plot cliches and unrealistic events. But it was those same outrageous events and cliches that clicked with so many people because they were allegedly real.