The Hoax

After a few weeks away, I'm back up over at Pajiba:

The lies of a writer like James Frey are essentially of lasting interest only to publishing insiders, if them. He was lying about himself, after all, and if it weren’t for Oprah, very few people would know who he is, much less care if he was covered in vomit and blood exactly when and where he claimed to be covered in vomit and blood. But imagine someone today "co-writing" an entirely fictitious autobiography of Oprah, and you’re closer to what Clifford Irving tried to pull off in 1971, when he sold the memoirs of Howard Hughes.