The audacity of fictional fiction

I finally read my Rolling Stone from November 2007, and it contained a story about the author JT LeRoy, a person dreamt up by the mental illness of Laura Albert. She sells this alter ego of hers to celebrities, literary giants, the public. Everyone. She has random people dress up as the fictional street hustler/messed up kid - everyone from street kids to friends. Everybody got their turn being JT. The story is so long and sordid. You'd just have to read it, because it is so convaluded it is almost impossible to relate without going into all of the details.

Long story short, I could relate to Albert. Not in the mental illness and sexual abuse sense, but in the fact that she compartmentalizes and sells it. I have so many different parts of me, and they don't always seem to mesh. But I won't be paying homeless kids to play me for public appearences, thanks.

Albert and her friend Savanah, whom she hired to play JT (I am shocked people thought she was a he - Albert calls it the "emporer's new clothes" effect).