He was right. One reporter asked if I was married. Then she wanted to know why I wasn't married -- if it was a feminist statement related to my "childhood fear of becoming a trapped woman." (I wanted to reply, "Sometimes a singleton's just a singleton.") Although I've managed to train my mother never to go down this path, I couldn't get the reporter to stop. Do I have a boyfriend, she wanted to know. When I declined to answer, she actually asked my sexual preference.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, I joked that she should check with the guy I was dating. Then she asked me for this guy's name and profession, and when I politely said something about protecting his privacy, she responded, "Why? You didn't protect your family's identity in your book." THEY'RE MY FAMILY! I wanted to scream. I've discussed this with them, and besides, we share a last name. Their identities aren't exactly difficult to figure out. I hadn't even brought this guy to a party with me yet. I wasn't about to publish his name in a national magazine.

Another reporter arranged to meet me at a local coffeehouse at 2 p.m. "What do you want for lunch?" she asked when we sat down. Thinking this was just coffee, I explained that I'd already eaten lunch and ordered a latte.

Five minutes later, when I was discussing the fact that struggling with body image as a preteen has given me a healthier attitude toward my body today, she looked skeptical.

"But how can you say that when you just skipped lunch?" she asked.

No matter how times I reiterated that I'd already eaten, she refused to believe that someone as obsessive about food as I used to be could be telling the truth 20 years later. To her, my body may have grown up, but my mind was still that of the girl in my book.

Other questions I've been asked include: "Now that Martin Scorsese has optioned your book, do you want to play yourself in the movie?" (Not unless I want to portray myself as a grown woman who peppers her speech with "Duh!") "You said in the book you'd never wear makeup, no matter what. But tonight you're wearing lipstick." (In the book I also said I'd become an astrophysicist and never stick my tongue in a boy's mouth. Things change.) "The first time a guy saw you naked, were you concerned with how your body appeared?" (I was more concerned with whether his parents might appear.)

When I worked in Hollywood, I used to roll my eyes when celebrities would complain about what a hassle it is to be famous, to have to answer questions about their personal lives and not just their latest film projects. Deal with it, I'd think, and I'll bet there are people who believe that if you publish something personal, you'd better be prepared to reveal everything from what you eat for breakfast to when you lost your virginity. It comes with the territory.

And to some extent, I'm in that camp. I mean, I'm just as curious as the next person to know if Elizabeth Wurtzel is off Prozac yet, or how Mary Karr views motherhood, or if Dani Shapiro ever sees the manipulative old creepy guy she had the dysfunctional relationship with, or if Sarah Saffian still visits her birth family.

So don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining that there's interest. Let's face it, I'm glad people have questions. After all, I may not be Joyce Maynard, documenting my life on the Internet each day, but I do have a Web site with a URL that epitomizes narcissism: www.lorigottlieb.com. (To be fair, I tried to get www.stickfigure.com, but it was taken by a guy who says he's 6-foot-5 and really, really skinny.)

But I do try not to make assumptions or judgments about who these memoirists are today. I restrain myself from conflating my projection of who they are based on their books with who they are in their real lives. I remind myself that I've read only what they've chosen to tell -- no more, no less -- and that I don't really know these writers personally, even though it may feel like I do because they've shared some pretty personal information. No matter how much I might feel entitled to it, I force myself to remember that I don't have carte blanche to analyze their lives just because they've published a memoir.

Now, of course, Dave Eggers, he's another story. You can tell from his memoir that he's sensitive, witty and endlessly insightful. A bit damaged from the early deaths of both his parents, but that's made him more empathic to loss. He'd never callously dump someone, for example. And the way he treated his little brother? Sure, he made some mistakes, but that's just because he had unresolved anger at his parents for abandoning him. I'll bet he'll make an excellent father one day. His jacket photo's not bad either. Hey, Dave, you got a girlfriend?

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