Our next book club meeting is coming up fast and I hadn’t even picked up the book yet. So we made a little trip to the book store on Sunday to nab it and I put it on the bedside table for the night’s reading. By the first paragraph (they don’t LOOK like paragraphs, but they are), I was hooked. I made it all the way to page 90 before finally deciding it would be better to get some sleep.

I was so geeked about it that I was telling everyone. My friend at work, when I shared the scene detailing the root canal, asked if I was sure it was a memoir. “It must be embellished. All of that can’t be true.” It is, I insisted. Because the book jacket clearly states that it’s a memoir. A true experience. NON-fiction.

Then last night my husband bounds down the stairs from the office and gleefully, it seemed to me, told me that my new book might be a fraud. I’ve only read bits of the NY Times article, but I’ll save my judgement until I’ve finished the book and discerned which passages the brouhaha pertains too. There’s also The Smoking Gun article and some conversation at Kottke.org that’ll have to wait for now too.

It has put a bit of a damper on my reading pleasure. It just feels different now that I’m questioning whether the experiences are actually factual or fictional. Bah.