Memoirs and consequences

The latest literary cause célèbre, the exposure of the fabulism (read: rank deception) of author Margaret Seltzer (under the pseudonym Margaret Jones) in connection with her book Love and Consequences: A Memoir of Hope and Survival, saddened me for two reasons, one fairly trivial and self-interested and the other, uncharacteristically not. As for the first reason, I had some interest, beyond its corny subtitle, in reading Ms. Seltzer's now-discredited "memoir" of coming of age in an inner-city gang environment, although in truth (whatever that is nowadays), I might never have read it and certainly won't now. (For an account of an independent bookseller's "on-the-ground" response to the book's recall, go here.) More importantly, the book represents a missed opportunity to address, in a compelling way, some of the alternately demoralizing, tempting and crushing facts of life in areas of South-Central Los Angeles or, according to Ms. Seltzer, "to put a voice to people who people don’t listen to." She states further, in what reads more like an attempt at an explanation than a defense, "Maybe it’s an ego thing — I don’t know. I just felt that there was good that I could do and there was no other way that someone would listen to it." Her ploy to pass off fiction as some sort of reportage is compounded by the added hubris of inserting herself into the middle of a story that seems to be, at least in part, a composite of moments taken from the real lives of others, others without publishing deals.

With objectives similar to Ms. Seltzer's expressed intent, other authors have, through "real" fiction, very movingly covered similar urban terrain, whether it be in David Simon's Baltimore, George Pelecanos' D.C., Dennis Lehane's Boston or Richard Price's fictional Dempsy (something of a stand-in for Jersey City across the river from Manhattan). Mr. Simon, a former reporter for the Baltimore Sun, is best known for being the driving force behind HBO's seminal series The Wire, and the other "crime" or "mystery" writers, in their novels, demonstrate a shared desire for authenticity and social realism. These novelists have, not surprisingly, participated in the creation of Simon's series to varying degrees, from writing individual episodes to contributing overarching storylines, key characters and critical plot developments. Although they collectively strive to maintain the show's essential veracity while shedding light on social issues that are generally dismissed as intractable or otherwise ignored, the creators of The Wire appreciate that any serialized drama, like a novel, must make concessions to the traditional demands of narrative. The show's highly dramatic moments, couched as they are in a richly textured, pulsing environment, are all the more arresting and moving for having been earned. Notwithstanding the palpable authenticity of their five-season epic, the writers, who have together produced what is, to my mind, probably the greatest television series ever, understand that life, to its disadvantage and credit, is not a story. Craven attempts to blur this distinction and denigrate the truth damage the fundamental credibility needed by writers of memoirs and fiction alike, particularly those with ambitions to, through their work, do good in the world.

Oddly enough, news of Ms. Seltzer's deception appeared in the print edition of The New York Times and elsewhere yesterday, the same day the paper featured a review of author and Wire contributor Richard Price's new book by one of the critics who had been duped by Ms. Seltzer's own claims to authenticity. (The reviewer, describing Price's book as "his most powerful and galvanic work yet," acknowledges that "[n]o one writes better dialogue.") The Times article first detailing Ms. Seltzer's lies reported that her editor, Sarah McGrath, was shocked by the revelation. McGrath's father is, as the article discloses, Charles McGrath, a regular contributor to the paper who had supplied an extensive author profile for Sunday's edition two days earlier. The author profiled? Richard Price.

Yesterday the world of books just seemed small, incestuous and a little untrustworthy.