Amidst the hullabaloo surrounding Oprah's recent book club selection, "A Million Little Pieces," I must admit I loved the book--every word. I read it in three sittings, breaking only to sleep and fix meals. Everything else, I did with the book in front of me.

    Accusations that the book--categorized as memoir--is fiction, forced the author to admit he fabricated (embellished?) parts of his story. An airline employee--past or present, I can't remember--says James Frey wouldn't have been allowed on board in the bloody, vomit-covered condition he describes himself in as he made the trip to a Minnesota treatment center. His time spent in prison turns out to be hours in a holding cell for driving under the influence and other traffic violations.

    I fantasize about writing my own book. I see myself seated behind a table in a major bookstore in a faraway city. A long line of admirers, recently purchased copies of my tome clutched to their chests, wait patiently for my autograph. My bestseller will be about what I know: my life. Family members often marvel about my excellent memory. But if they don't remember, how can they be sure I do? If I write my book and include what I feel is the truth, will they have instant recall and want to sue me like the family of Minnesota author, Nicole Helgott? It would certainly ruin my book signing if members of my family, and their lawyers, protested loudly that I had it all wrong.

    I laugh until my head hurts when I read David Sedaris' books. His family has nothing on mine, I tell myself, but I marvel that he gets away with exposing his quirky family to the world. Each time I send a story to a contest, I wonder what my family would think. If she were to read the story about my elopement, would my sister take umbrage with the fact that I call the mohair suit I was married in baby blue? Would she insist the suit, which I borrowed from her closet, was really pale turquoise?

    I worry she'll be angry if she reads my story about our first summer at camp-when she sat on a fellow camper and pounded her fists against the girl's back, yelling, "Am not! You're the liar." Has the statute of limitations run out or could the family of her pummeled victim bring charges against us because I mention the little girl was the daughter of a prominent Minnesota family?

    "Chicago Tribune" columnist Clarence Page addressed the subject of marketing fiction as nonfiction when he wrote about James Frey. He used the word "truthiness," which he said the American Dialect Society defines as "the quality of preferring concepts or facts one wishes to be true, rather than concepts or facts known to be true."

    Do I engage in truthiness when I gift-wrap my childhood for this column, choosing to remember the good times and forget the bad? Perhaps. Should they choose to write, I hope my children will embrace truthiness with a vengeance. "Mommy Dearest," has already been written. No sense in their writing a sequel to Christina Crawford's exposé of her mean movie-star mother, Joan.

    As for Mr. Frey, maybe we need to cut him a little slack. I do believe, under the influence or not, a few hours in any cell would feel like a prison sentence to me. Millions of people must agree because they've kept his book at the top of the best-seller list. I hope they'll do the same for me when my time comes.