Lie to Me, Baby: The (very) Brief Adventures of Stalker Girl

Not since Lauren Slater’s Lying has a memoir come along and deliberately lied to readers. And I don’t mean in the way of those infamous fake memoirs we all think about when we hear the words “memoir” and “lying” mentioned in the same breath. I’m talking in a straight-up literary and artful way. But before I get into the details of Karl Taro Greenfeld’s memoir Boy Alone I have to tell you how I came across his book. Why? Because I’m a narcissist, of course, so I can’t help talking about myself. But seriously, despite all my navel gazing, I’m also a huge believer in coincidence, or fate if you will.

It all began when I first encountered Karl Taro Greenfeld’s work in the pages of The Sun, a short story entitled “Death Or Glory.” I was smitten, in the midst of a very serious literary crush. Needless to say, I’ve had other literary crushes. There was Junot Díaz, Kathryn Harrison, Frank McCourt, all of them shamelessly seducing me with their words. By the time I picked up a used copy of The Best American Short Stories 2009, and found “NowTrends,” I was convinced we were meant to be: Karl Taro Greenfeld and me, Stalker Girl. Fate? You bet.

So, fast forward to January 2011. I’ve been celebrating the publication of my own short story in one of my favorite lit mags of all time—but I won’t elaborate on that since this is not at all about shameless self promotion—and tonight, I’m sitting in front of my computer when I open my email. It’s from someone who’s just read my story, congratulating and thanking me for writing it. And who is the email from? You guessed it. Karl Taro Greenfeld. I almost fall out of my desk, and by “my desk,” I mean the couch. But that’s not all. Tomorrow there will be a shiny new copy of The Missouri Review in my mailbox, and what will I find in its pages? Greenfeld’s “Even the Gargoyle Is Frightened.” I won’t read it right away. I’ll carry it in my messenger bag for weeks. Foreplay. Of the literary kind.

Back to the present. How should I respond to his email? I stop myself from replying with “Wow! I’ve been web-stalking you for months!” and I resist the urge to use various I-heart-you-and-you-complete-me clichés. I know how frightening such a statement might sound to a normal person. Instead, I opt for sanity. I thank him, because I’m grateful, and I tell him that it means a lot, because it does. Why? That’s the question, isn’t it?

*

It’s not that simple. Of course, every writer needs validation, to know that our essay or memoir or story has touched even one reader is part of the reason we all write. But let’s just say that lately, I’ve been having a crisis of faith— in the state of memoir as a whole, and in myself as a writer—which was triggered in part by the recent slew of celebrity “memoirs” crowding bookstore shelves. (Do we really live in a world where books written, and I use the term loosely, by Snooki and Justin Bieber are bestsellers? Are there no more Frank McCourts or Annie Dillards left in the world? And don’t even get me started on ghostwriters.) But I won’t mislead you. That wasn’t it. Not entirely.

The conversation that followed David Shields’ Reality Hunger also got me thinking about myself as a writer, about my own memoir, and about why I keep writing the thing if it feels like I’m banging my head against the wall. Then Taylor Antrim reviewed Nick Flynn’s The Ticking is the Bomb for The Daily Beast, insisting that the memoir would be a much better book if it were written as a novel. Antrim wrote, “So, what’s with all the memoirs? Are they somehow… easier? Is the storytelling bar set lower? Too often, memoir seems to me an excuse to be fragmentary, incomplete, narratively non-rigorous.” At the time, because I was without a doubt, one hundred percent, a defender of memoir, my answers to his questions were simple: No, writing a memoir is not easier. This reviewer is wrong. This is a failure on the reader's part. He doesn’t get it. The story arc here is secondary. He doesn’t understand what this memoir is doing because he’s a fiction writer. Only a fiction writer would say that the novel form is greater than the memoir, that fiction is better than nonfiction. (*Disclaimer: I’m also a fiction writer. I don’t have a preference over fiction and creative nonfiction.)

But later, as I struggled with my own writing, I wasn’t so sure. First I needed to find out why I was struggling. Maybe it was me who didn’t understand what memoir was supposed to do, or maybe I picked the wrong tense, or the wrong voice, or the wrong structure. Maybe I just wasn’t a good enough writer. I admit I found myself straying, scouring bookshelves like a mad Stalker Girl, looking through all my favorite memoirs for what exactly it was that made them my favorites.

And then I found it. I didn’t have a name for it then, but I knew what it was. And what did all these books have in common? Story arc? Whatever it was, it was not secondary. I found myself asking, Do I have a secret preference for fiction? Am I being unfaithful to my memoir? Am I sleeping with the enemy?

*

And so I picked up a copy of Karl Taro Greenfeld’s memoir, Boy Alone. Yes, I’m still in love. Not just because this is a book that sheds light on the effects of autism on children and their entire families, a book that while intentionally lying to readers—how? Sorry, I won’t spoil it for you, but I will tell you that everything is not as it seems—still manages to remain honest and unflinching, a book that at times straddles the line between memoir and lyric essay. Yes it is all those things, but it’s so much more—it’s a book that doesn’t shy away from the ugly truth even when it’s about the narrator’s own flaws or those of his family. Boy Alone will take the memoir conversation in a different direction, will make you question what a memoir is supposed to do, question how you read, and how memoirists write or should write, and what’s acceptable in nonfiction, and why. Maybe we will find ourselves discussing whether the story is determined by the structure or if the structure is determined by the story, instead of having yet another conversation about truth in memoir, or comparing memoir to fiction.

Reading Greenfeld’s memoir helped me make up my mind about Antrim’s review. I realize now that it isn’t just a failure on the reader’s part. But it isn’t a writer’s failure either. It’s simply a matter of preference. Some readers prefer poetry, others fiction. Some people like reality TV, others, like me, prefer to watch zombies get their heads blown off on AMC. Not that I’m comparing reality TV—or zombie gore for that matter—to memoir. But you get what I mean.

I bet you won’t be shocked to hear that after I finished Boy Alone, I just had to contact Greenfeld. Had to. Couldn’t contain myself. I also sent him a copy of my now finished memoir, and not only did he read it, but he thought it was “a brilliant coming of age story, especially the Aristotelian Organicism and Essentialism, the alien warfare, and the unique star-crossed lovers storyline.” Yup. His words exactly. And afterward, my agent called to give me the good news: seven figures. Oh, and did I forget to mention that President Obama called to ask if I would have dinner with him and Michelle? Oprah will also be there. I suspect they have a surprise for me. Suck on that, Snooki!

*

What really happens:

After I finish Boy Alone, I turn on my computer, find Greenfeld’s email address, start writing. You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you? When I’m about to hit send, I change my mind. I don’t send it. Why? That’s the question, isn’t it?

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This awesome essay was written by Jaquira Diaz. Don't mess with her. She knows 101 ways to take you down.