What's true?

The recent controversy about James Frey's book A Million Little Pieces has prompted tons of interesting commentary on the nature of "truth" in a memoir and the ethical obligations of authors and publishers.

But it strikes me that James Frey's problem is almost exactly the opposite of the awkward problem facing novelists. He wrote a supposedly true story that people have doubts about. Novelists write fiction, meanwhile, but people somehow still believe it is true!

I once sat through a conversation among several aspiring novelists that illustrates this. One of the women in the group had written a story in which the main character's husband played guitar. The man sitting next to her thought a technical aspect of the guitar playing was described wrong and he turned to the author's husband, who was also in the group, and asked if it were correct. We all turned to look expectantly at the husband. Remember we were all writers. We understood the concept of fiction. And yet, we turned to her husband to see how he answered this.

"I don't play the guitar," the husband said.

The writer blushed and apologized and we all cringed for realizing that we had -- for a moment -- assumed that the husband in the book was the same as the husband in real life.

It's a hard impulse to overcome. When the cover of my book first started circulating among friends, I was surprised that people asked why the woman on the cover was wearing jeans with high heels. "You never wear jeans and high heels," people said. Well, no, I don't. But I'm not Princess Isabella of Bisbania either. The woman on the book is.

For a first novelist like myself, this is a somewhat terrifying phenomenon. No one could possibly think that my story of a minor European princess is about me. That is what I tell myself. But then I reread a passage about a battle between the princess and the queen and I wonder if my own mother-in-law will think that I'm talking about her. Later, as I think about the man who haunts the princess on sleepless nights, I realize I gave him dark hair. But my husband's hair is light. Will this mean that every dark-haired boyfriend from my past will assume that he haunts me on sleepless nights. (The answer to any ex-boyfriends reading this is: Sorry, but no. If I can't sleep, I'm usually haunted by things like: "Did I lock the front door? Did I give the cat her insulin shot? Is it just me or is Simon Cowell even ruder this year?"

The truth is, of course, that there are aspects of the Princess that I share. (Fine, fly-away hair that is hard to control.) But there is a little piece of me in every single character in my book -- both the men and the women, the young and the old, the good and the bad. But my mother-in-law is very nice. And I don't think about ex-boyfriends late at night. And I will never, ever wear high heels with blue jeans. And that's the truth.

Happy New Year

Bonne Année!

The main characters in my book, Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle, have some issues with Paris. They are constantly rolling their eyes and complaining about all things French.

But you must understand, these are not Americans making some sort of geopolitical comment while eating their freedom fries. No, no, these are the citizens and residents of a tiny European country that sits in the shadow of France, one that is united by its hatred of Paris, a hatred that only the truly envious can understand. What’s wrong with Bisbanian fries after all? Why couldn’t the world be wild about those?

My own trip to Paris in 1998 was an absolute delight and I was happy to find that the people were very gracious to my husband and I, though our halting, phrase-book French was inadequate, laughable and in one case, fortuitous.

We were eating breakfast at a lovely café, when I timidly attempted to order a caffe latte. The waitress smiled and in a pleasing mix of French/English and the international symbol of chilly – the shiver – asked if I wanted it served hot or cold.

Relieved that she was not angry at me for my inability to speak French, I said “hot’ and gave her a big smile. Moments later, she served me a steaming cup of ... milk. I realized then, I had left out one of the most important words (and most important ingredients) in the caffe latte – the caffe.

I quickly surmised that there was no polite way to ask for her to correct my own mistake and vowed to make do.

I was pleased to discover that steamed milk is actually quite good. And it turns out it is actually available in places much closer to home – exotic, French places and, you know, places like Starbucks.

My new year’s resolution is to drink more steamed milk – often called a steamer. According to Starbucks’ website, a tall steamed non-fat milk with a sugar free syrup has 130 calories, no fat, 13 grams of protein and 40 percent of your daily requirement of calcium. And it’s warm in your hand and smooth on your throat just like coffee.

But watch out for the tempting offer of whipped cream on top. That messes with the good nutritional vibe.

But then again, French women don’t get fat. (Or so I’ve heard.)