I felt a certain–I don’t know what to call it–smug satisfaction when all those other writers were bamboozled by JT Leroy. Because I thought, “Well, if they’d just read my damn novel … "
It’s strange in every direction. A lot of people will assume the facts of the movie are the facts of my life, which they are not. I didn’t take off on an adventure to find this kid. I never got off my a– in San Francisco. That’s what writers do: we imagine where life might take us if we ever actually acted on it.
I continue to feel a certain affection for that person I spoke to on the phone. But there’s something deeply cynical about someone who exploits the kindness of others in order to get attention.
