I learned the craft of journalism at the Associated Press and subsequently worked as a staff and freelance editor for institutions such as Conde Nast, Times Mirror, Murdoch Publishing, Major League Baseball, Newsweek International, Time Warner, and the New York Times. As a feature writer, my byline has appeared in GQ, TV Guide, The Los Angeles Times, and (frequently) The New York Times. And I've written ten nonfiction books.

I'd like to believe the same stringent journalistic standards that governed these various venues were similarly applied to my last book, a memoir called THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY (Volt Books, September 2005), which is an account of a reconnection, after 20-plus years, with the married college sweetheart who broke my heart (and who likely still held a key piece-perhaps the piece that enabled a marital commitment-of it). But that belief, most recently and rancorously raised (razed?) by James Frey's A MILLION LITTLE PIECES, might be disingenuous if not downright delusional.

A memoir, by definition, traffics in memory. Most memories-especially as recalled by individuals in the middle or back end of their lives-are faulty, selective, and self-serving.

Hard as I tried to maintain a totally open, honest, and committed relationship with my readers, I knew at the outset that I was doomed to fail. Too many innocent subjects asked for anonymity (or at least unidentifiable identities). I was duty, and legally, bound to abide. In addition, a story-any story, even an allegedly true story-makes its own demands on the storyteller. If a tree falls in the woods to be made into sheets of bound paper, and nobody reads them because there's no cohesive, compelling narrative imprinted on them... Well, you get the point.

And so, in the service of two masters-disclosure and art-I crafted this footnote for the introduction: "Throughout the book, some names and identifying details have been changed by request. On occasion, literary license (arguably, in the service of humor) may stretch a situation beyond its actual occurrence. Separate discussions with friends and acquaintances have been collated and inserted into selected Boys' Night Out situations. In the greater interest of narrative space or pace, a few quotations have been shortened or sharpened; grammar and spelling have also been corrected. Every other essential detail, for all intents and purposes, is unassailably accurate."

Had Mr. Frey offered a similar disclaimer, it's possible that he would have been spared the wrath of dissed and disappointed lovers such as Oprah (though, in truth, if she didn't believe in the veracity of every raw, unstinting, non-fictional word, Frey's book likely would've been spared the complete Club/Show/Fan treatment).

So, in the end, what questions should a memoirist-mindful of an unwritten contract with each reader-ask himself/herself before committing memories to paper? Here's the (my) essential Q-and-A:

When, if ever, are fully-disclosed lies acceptable?

I prefer not to call them lies, but anything less than 100 percent truth and accuracy (t&a) must be reported. Perhaps there should be a universal t&a rating system (indicated in percentage) on all memoirs, as estimated by the author. (In my experience, publishers have little interest in holding writers to any ethical standard; if the in-house lawyers do their due diligence, the buck stops there.) I'd give THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY a rating of 87.5 %. Based on outside reporting and a subsequent "disclaimer," Frey's memoir would probably rate about a 32 %. Armed with this rating, along with the author's note, readers could then decide what is acceptable to them.

Should memoirs may be held to a different journalistic or ethical standard than other nonfiction works?

Yes, with an explanation (regarding, again, gradations). A news reporter for The New York Times must primarily rely on facts, not memory. A feature writer has only slightly more leeway, but still must report with 100 percent accuracy. Any Timesperson who then parlays his/her piece into a book deal is still expected to submit a perfectly reported manuscript.

At the opposite end of true-story telling is the celebrity autobiography (average t&a rating-50 %), which usually depends on memory, not facts, embellished by a ghostwriter's creative flair. It's the rare ghost who does more than transcribe, and few celebrities will read, much less vet, their "own" words (basketballer Charles Barkley famously said he was misquoted in his autobiography).

Somewhere, then, in that vast nonfiction middle ground lies (no pun intended) the memoir. It is a genre with its own set of descending rules.

Rule #1: Be sold.
Rule #2: Be read.
Rule #3: Be compelling.
Rule #4: Be true.
Rule #5: Be emotionally true.


What's the difference between emotional truth and actual truth?

About 30 percent.

If you want to hear more from Lee, check out his class, The Freelance Life, in April in New York.