Literary Scandals/Beef Stew

Literary Scandal Numero Uno: J. T. LeRoy

Read Susie Bright's much-circulated J.T. Leroy blog entry. Susie is a pal of mine. One night, five years ago or so, I showed up at the door of Susie's pumpkin-colored Victorian in very bad shape.

Susie took one look at me, immediately walked me back into her kitchen and started to cook.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm interrupting your dinner. I'll go."

"Don't be an idiot," said Susie. "I'm cooking for you."

Susie is the best pal in the world. Completely selfless in friendship; totally supportive professionally. One of the few writers I know driven by passion for the substance of her work rather than the marketing of same.

But I still don't get her sense of personal outrage here. Is it because Emily Whatsherface was part of that Cyborgasm clique and used those connections to begin the ascent up Celebrity Mountain?

I tried to read one of "LeRoy's" stories once. It was just awful. Recycled, updated Other Voices, Other Rooms. Without the hooker mom/truckstop sob story, no one would have given it a second glance. Fabricating the backstory was just savvy marketing. Hey! It's fiction!

Literary Scandal Numero Two-o: James Frey:

This is the more egregious of the literary transgressions in my humble opinion.

Now, I have a shameful secret I could probably make big bucks writing about. But so what? Doesn't everybody? Mine doesn't involve murder, extortion, treason or harm to anyone, really, except myself and whatever legal sanctions may once have been invoked, that statute of limitations has passed.

The only problem is that I'm really ashamed of it. Think about it – which I do, several times each day – with deep regret and self-loathing.

I'm continually amazed that anyone can confront horrible things they've done without wanting to run off and enlist in a religious order. Every leper's podiatric ablution: another black mark expunged! Sebastian Flyte is my role model here.

Redemption is the big Meta theme of my life. It works for other people, usually through some form of confessional. I love books like Jerry Stahl's Permanent Midnight and James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. (Despite the latter's Oprah Seal of Approval, the former is the better written – and as it turns out – more honest book.) But I always wonder: are the huge advances, reversals of fortune and the opportunity to deliver a big Fuck You really redemption? Or are they a deeper investment in the no-longer-secret but still shameful act?

It's a bizarre world where shame becomes currency. And that's about as deep as I can get into the Oprah sucker-punch.

In another news, last night I craved turnips and so ended up cooking the most fabulously tasty beef stew. The only problem is that I cook without recipes, have no memory whatsoever of the spices I threw into the pot. There were turnips, yes. Also fresh rosemary, fresh oregano, powdered basil, Italian tomatoes and burgundy. Still, I'll never be able to reduplicate the dish.

Also, as I was sitting in the Little Store after dark, doing the year's end accounting, a gentleman from New Hampshire wandered in. "I was here a year and a half ago," he said. "Forget the Aquarium: this was the one place I had on my list to go back to. It's magic."

Which, of course, made me very happy to hear.