The Truth About Me.

Celebrated novelist JT Leroy, known for gritty novels that drew on his life as a prostitute and drug addict, doesn't really exist--and there's another book in the making (well, movie offer. Even better).

A central figure in the case of the mysterious writer JT Leroy has come forward to say that no one named JT Leroy exists, and that the books published under that name were actually written by a San Francisco woman named Laura Albert.

Geoffrey Knoop said that stress of the scheme led him to come forward. . . Knoop, Ms. Albert's partner for the last 16 years, said in a telephone interview on Saturday evening that he had seen Ms. Albert write the books of JT Leroy in their San Francisco apartment. He added that for much of the last decade, he had been present when Ms. Albert conducted telephone conversations as JT Leroy with unwitting editors, writers and celebrities, using the voice of a young man with a West Virginia accent.

Ms. Albert, 40, is originally from Brooklyn.

All of these writers coming forward with the truth have left me in a tizzy. I lie awake in bed trying to gather the courage to come forward with my own true story. You think all that jazz mentioned in the previous couple of posts is just plain old panic disorder, inherited from a long line of panicky types? That's because that's what I WANTED YOU TO THINK.

The truth is, my panic is PTSD, left over from my years as a drug-using prostitute. Or maybe it was reliving my stint as a hired killer that brings it all back. I was so young then, I didn't understand the morality of my actions, yet years later, late at night, I awake in a cold sweat--thrown back to the time when I was nine years old and carrying out my contract killing of a mafia boss. Or that really nasty third grade teacher.

I toss and turn and wonder if I should continue this charade as a middle-aged mother, when in fact I'm now an agent for a Federal Agency devoted to bringing down drug lords in South America and Canada. Sure it'll mean the end of my safety under the witness protection program, but I owe it to my readers to be utterly Truthful about my own time as a drug dealer and as the mistress of El Repartidor.

I was just a teenager when I turned in the names of my contacts for immunity but my old cohorts in crime found me. Gunned me down, too. They all thought I was dead, until I turned up as a surprise witness at a trial so incredibly secret, it could not be revealed on the front pages of the nation's papers.

It was after that I fled to the arms of El Repartidor. Oh, yes, I did love him, but I soon grew tired of living in our tropical paradise kingdom, a prisoner of his success. I wanted to go back home to the mean streets of New York. And so I helped have him kidnapped and brought to to the USA to stand trial.

I continue my work even as I write my books. My agent has begged me to tell my story at last--how I recovered from my own addiction and how I single-handedly brought down the Columbian drug lord. But until now, I've been reluctant to blow my cover.

I mean, who would guess that an ex-druggie, ex-prostitute Federal Agent with a third grade education (they tossed me out of school after the Mrs. Binholder job) would want to write historical romances?

But I suppose the time has come to tell the truth. My agent is out shopping the title even as I proofread the final version.

I'm starting a new book. This one will be how I duped the public and how ashamed I am of covering up my sordid past. I don't think I'll even have to write a lot for this one. I'll just put in copies of all the sensational articles that will be written about me.

I figure I'll only have to write a few dozen pages of mea culpas and a chapter about how I'm brought to my knees by my depression, crushed by years of hiding the truth and then the public's discovery of my lies.

I'll convey my utter despair. I'm considering finding God or maybe heading back to nature (or even taking up the old drug habit) I haven't decided which will rescue my lying, cheating soul at last. I like upbeat endings so I really do have to be saved. Yep, that'll be a follow-up bestseller so I think I'll save all the best photos for it.

Update: Oh Lordy! Look at this -- lifted from Beth's site (lifted from arp)

kate --


A person who makes a living suing celebrities

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at
perfect for yesterday's theme. . .


  1. ROTFPMSL! Brilliant, Miskate. Absolutely brilliant.

    But I'm still never buying another one of your books because your deception hurt something deep inside of me, all the way to the soul. *muffled sob*

  2. Okay, I gotta ask, ROTFPMSL? I've got ROTF, rolling on the floor, right? But what's PMSL?

    Kate, you crack me up. I've been reading you every day for a couple of weeks, and I'm adding you to my blogroll.

    I have a whopping five regulars, but maybe they'll click over and become your regulars, too.

    Oh, and thanks for stopping by the other day, I really appreciate it.

  3. I think finding God might push you right over the edge...
    LOL -
    Of course, you can always go back to the FBI - I hear they are looking for a few good men - er, women.

  4. pissing myself laughing, Shelbi, or is it pissing my shoes laughing? One of those.

    So, Kate, when did all the sluttery come in to play?

    Say hello to my little frog.

  5. Coming clean can be soooo profitable. Say hi to Oprah for me!

  6. Kate, you're INSAAAAAAANE!!!

    I heart Kate.

  7. Terry, you're so cynical. I'm coming clean for the sake of My Readers.

    I take my inspiration from Mr. Knoop who admitted the deception. From The NYTimes:
    "If you're feeling more and more suffocated by the complications and lies, it's not worth it," he [Knoop] said.

    Mr. Knoop has hired a Los Angeles entertainment lawyer and said that he hopes to sell a movie about his experience

  8. Kate, how do you pronounce KNOOP??

    Like CANUTE, but with a P???

  9. Noop. The "K" is silent. . . Or so I say. My motto being "if you don't know then I do".

  10. Kate--your story is good, but maybe you want to spice it up a bit. You know, make it even more interesting. How about having a problem with kryptonite?

  11. Aren't you going to mention the stolen love-children that El Repartidor's even more wicked brother kidnapped? Or is that the sequel - the search through South American jungles and, finally, the teary reunion?

  12. And you forgot to explore the angst-ridden heartbreak of finding that old letter from your dearly departed mother, finally admitting that she'd been living a lie all those years and that you were conceived in a wild moment of passion when she met a stunning Latin man at the post office and got wild and crazy in the corner behind the mail-drop box... yes, your real father was El Repartidor Senior, which means that your years of sweet, druggie love with El Repartidor were really incestuous and wrong...

    Yeah, you can't leave THAT out. Angst like that will fetch you another hundred thou, easy.

  13. And you forgot to mention being a drug mule. For shame.

  14. Please, turn to nature as your redemption. I'm not sure I would believe that your personal relationship with your savior would indeed rescue from the guilt produced by your lies. Besides, wouldn't this relationship be doomed because of your lies? Just ask Dr. Phil--honesty is at the heart of a loving relationship.

    Ooo. That's it. Get Dr. Phil to rescue you from your lying ways and then you're assured a berth on both Oprah and Dr. Phil.

    (Good God. You would not believe the verification scramble below. Someone hates me: maybe God. ukxbguws)

  15. I'm "An Immortal" by the way (on that dictionary thingie). Good to know.

  16. I'm a hermit living in the big city.


  17. Shelbi --

    Pretentiously academian

    Does that mean I pretend I'm smart? Not very good at it, am I?

  18. I'm "Benevolent to a fault." Too funny. Thanks for that link, Kate.

  19. Kate, I never knew...

  20. Oh, and thx for the link. My definition?
    "Tastes like fried chicken."

  21. Nienke, I'm 'Tastes like fried chicken', too.


  22. Well, you know everything tastes like chicken.


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