When I wrote the title, “packaging and marketing,” I was about to launch into a diatribe about presidential politics, my spin on the spin, and what I thought about everything. But the title languished, unattended. I’m not much of a political commentator.
Then another “true tale” turned up as a fabricated piece.
I write fiction; I write about my experiences – whether they’ve happened – or not. Pursuant to the terms outlined in the copious Terms of Service.
No kidding: true story.
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My guess would be that fiction is sold as memoir because of the voyeurism that seems to be prevalent in humans. The sleaze is fun to read, but it’s even more attention-getting if it supposedly happened to the author him/herself. It may be that the author is a narcissist, unable to talk or write about anybody but him/her self. Or, a third possibility, the author may be truly delusional.
Still, though, voyeurism is what sells, no matter how couched in self-help or relevatory language. And selling is what publishers are all about.
I’ve lived in Texas too long: anytime one of my friends starts – or ends – with “True story?” I am suspect. And circumspect.
No kidding: true story.
“You’re not going to believe this…”