The furiously scribbled editor’s note opposite that paragraph suggests that this whole lachrymose mea culpa is a crafty crock. To wit: “You never wrote a novel or a screenplay or anything else, and you know it.”
I mentioned in the acknowledgments that without my editor’s bottomless patience I never could have pur-sued the writing of this memoir to the end, and for once I wasn’t talking through my hat. But there I go again. I don’t have an editor. I’m probably not even going to finish this stupid “memoir,” because I’m morally and con-genitally unable to put two true sentences together.
But there I go again, again. I do have an editor, and he doesn’t deserve the tsuris I’ve put him through. The lies, the tricks, the slippery shenanigans — the spinning of one long piece of total hokum instead of the up-front, tell-all, from-the-gut memoir my proposal promised.
God, that sounded good! Too bad it was all lies. Except for once it wasn’t. And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything. For instance, did I mention my idyllic childhood in the gulag...?
