A Million Little Untruths ... So What?

So, I think I sorta missed the explosion of the James Frey thing in the blogosphere since I've been in hibernation minus the sleep for the past few weeks, but I really don't understand what the whole to-do is about.

I read A Million Little Pieces and I found it compelling as a literary work, regardless of whether or not it was true. It may not be up there with the books I read in Lit Hum, but the writing was moving, if experimental. I didn't finish the book inspired, I finished the book moved by good writing, by writing that had the power to move me, if that makes any sense.

And for me, that's all I need in a book. I don't care if the cover says it's a memoir or not. To a certain extent we all create our own realities and any memoir any of us would write would be filled with inaccuracies and embellishments. But f the writing is good and the story is compelling, that's enough for me.

I firmly believe that the value of a literary work rests in whether it changes you. If you read a book and remain the same person you were before you read it, then that book is worthless. A book is only meaningful when it means something to you, when it changes you, when it becomes a part of you, when it makes you ask questions. It doesn't matter whether the work is true or not.