Andrew Statum

I don't know. Yes, I enjoyed Lying on many levels. First of all, I think it's a good, well-written story. Whether it's "true" or whether it's "made up" doesn't enter into consideration of how artfully and convincingly the Slater portrays her characters or weaves her plot or draws out her themes. And beyond that, it was an entertaining read. For me, all of the elements of a "good story" were present.

The "truthfulness" of the story, I think, only enters into my estimation of the book as a secondary, maybe even a tertiary consideration. Though it is the central device, it's only possible if the primary elements of the writing (plot, character, language, etc.) are strong enough to support it, which I think they are.

So, that being said, I have the utmost respect for Slater's technique and craft as a writer, but I came away with a bitter taste in my mouth from Lying. I don't want to be flirted with when I read. The entire book, I felt, resonated with a kind of childish coyness that, after a while, just got old. I felt like Slater was prodding me in the ribs over and over again and asking me to consider how clever she was in being able to keep the "historical truth" of her life at bay. Like that guy in that old Monty Python sketch who keeps nudging the guy beside him and saying "See? See? Know what I mean? Huh? Get it? See?" A joke's not funny if you have to ask, "Do you get it?"

For me, I think, this book would have worked better if it were billed as a "Memoir of the Growth of an Imagination" because I think Lying perfectly captures the will to gleeful exaggeration that children have. For example, that bit about sticking her head in the toilet bowl to hear what her parents were talking about downstairs. That seems like something a child (Hell, even an adult with magically-inclined mind) would imagine to be a viable solution. Narrating such an incident seems a reasonable way to go about giving us the "narrative truth" of the development of someone's mind while it is in its pre-adolescent phase. But to say one actually stuck one's head in a toilet bowl, and then to string together a bunch of other magical anecdotes that may or may not have happened and slap the label "Memoir" on it seems to me an intentionally provocative ploy to sell a book within a nonfiction-hungry market saturated to the bursting point with autobiography.

To say this is how her mind works as an adult; I don't buy it. She's a psychologist for God's sake. And what exactly is the "narrative truth" of Slater's story? She exaggerates? That artistic invention is like epilepsy? Am I missing something?