Tuesday, February 5, 2013
I was at a crowded bookstore, doing a Handling the Truth event, which is to say teaching a memoir workshop. A pretty young writer approached, clutching Jane Mendelsohn's magnificent American Music to her breast.
"I so loved this book, thank you for writing it," she said.
"Oh," I said. "It's a lovely book, a beautiful book. But I didn't...."
Interrupting me, the young writer began to speak, in detail, of her book love. I nodded—of course, of course; I had raved about it endlessly myself. "But," I kept saying. "But...." Thwarted time and again in my desire to disclose as she went on and on. Then, interrupting herself, she said, "I guess some author is here for the Handling the Truth event."
Leaning close, she confided, "I'm not staying for that. The book seems a tad overdone."
I never got to say what was true—about American Music, about Truth.
I hate that.