Would somebody please sue the author formerly known as JT LeRoy? Now that the real creator of Sarah and The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things has been revealed as literary con-artist Laura Albert, it is high time the saga’s apparently fairytale ending is well and truly thwarted. It needs to be done quickly and clinically, before the next wave of deceptive wordsmiths rally behind Albert’s banner, and Hollywood starts work on the movie of the hoax – the rights to which have already been sold by Albert’s estranged partner, Geoffrey Knoop.
A lot has been written about JT in recent months. The JT LeRoy website contains posts that supposedly argue that just because the author pretended to be someone else, it should not affect the way we perceive her/his art. As far as that argument goes, fair enough. Books can be read independently of the lives of their authors. The genius of Shakespeare is not diminished because he might have been someone else. Sarah is an intensely good read regardless of who wrote it. But the deception carried out by the author is not going down well. And critics are railing. Albert and those family members who supported what could be described as the modern world’s largest literary racket, must not be tolerated, they say. The arguments are straightforward in fact. These people are criminals, it is argued. Criminals who took on false identities and preyed on the goodwill of others in order to benefit themselves financially. Their considerable gains could not have been achieved in the way they were had the JT/Albert camp not employed deceptive means.
Albert’s excuse is that she didn’t think publishers would take her seriously as a 30-something woman. Pull the other one, critics cry. We might still be living in a man’s world, but there are canons of literary icons and international bestsellers who also happen to be women.
One stream of thought is that the real reason for Albert’s web of lies appears to be in her psychotic realisation that by portraying herself as a luckless, sorrow-laden addict prostitute, desperately trying to make headway in a world that, by rights, should have crushed his spirit long ago, Albert knew she could lean on old friends, acquaintances, and industry contacts who would invariably offer her (as JT) their sympathy.
One of Albert’s earliest victims was popular sex-author Susie Bright. In her blog, Bright talks about the pressure Albert (as JT) applied to ensure she went that extra mile in helping to promote Albert’s work. Bright had actually known Albert as Albert before the hoax began, which one assumes is why she tapped Bright from the start, only to jettison her as a friend and contact when she was no longer of any use professionally. It was Bright who first published JT. And what is most interesting about that is Bright’s assertion that she would have published Albert as herself anyway – the writing was good, the empathy with her subject excellent. There was no need for Albert to fake her identity, except of course that as herself she would probably not have got away with tantrums, unreasonable demands, and requests for promotional assistance that played on JT’s sob story.
Those who say that Albert simply played a brilliant literary game conveniently sidestep the issue that fraud is illegal, and how Albert’s deception has negatively affected those nearest the source. How many people set aside their own projects to help promote JT because they thought they had come across someone who deserved and needed their help? Where would Albert’s career be now without those people, and where would the others be if they had remained solely committed to their own work?
So the reason why this hoax stinks, say the critics, is because Albert has made a fortune plus a name for herself on the back of other people’s charity and hard work. Sure, she wrote the books, but it was people like Bright out there doing readings and promotion on JT’s behalf, that sold it.
As Ira Silverberg, JT’s literary agent, made clear in an interview with Media Bistro last month: ‘People were deceived in a brutal way: playing the AIDS card to elicit support, money, connections. That is simply unacceptable. It is morally reprehensible.’
Yes, Albert lied to get famous and rich. If I applied for a job as a doctor and pretended I was qualified when I wasn’t, then I’d be in deep trouble the second I got found out. Albert said she was JT, a victim of abuse, a dying person, who managed to regale us with true tales of woeful tragedy. Anyone who bought a JT book because they thought it was a true account can count themselves as victims of fraud. Never mind that they subsequently enjoyed the prose, if they had known it was a made up story they might not have made the purchase – Albert profited from impersonation and one would suspect that she should therefore be culpable for damages in court.
If Albert’s writing is truly great then the odds are that eventually, through hard work and persistence, she would have made it without the deception, but clearly she didn’t feel it was worth taking the risk, and we shall never know whether her career would have taken off without the lies.
So why do authors of fiction need to pretend it’s non-fiction? Perhaps they are simply taking a lead from the success of reality TV programs and trying to meet that demand, or they are responding to messages issued by marketing gurus who tell us that success comes from being able to build a brand. For example, if you can write a bestseller about your larger than life exploits, you too can become that brand, no matter if you made it up.
It does seem rather odd though. Particularly when there are many more writers making good money writing fiction everybody knows is fiction. James Frey, who himself is under scrutiny and has admitted to fabricating parts of A Million Little Pieces for dramatic effect, may have been last year’s second best-selling writer, but it was J.K. Rowling who was the people’s favourite by a mile, and last I heard she wasn’t making any claims that she actually hung out in Hogwarts.
