Why I (Usually) Won't Tell You Which Parts Are True

People always want to know: What's real and what's fiction?

They want a neat list of which characters are based on real people, which scenes actually happened, which conversations I pulled from memory versus imagination.

I get it. The Strangest of Places is labeled "a work of fiction, influenced by memory," and that's frustratingly vague, but here's the thing: I'm not being coy. There's a reason I blur that line, and it has everything to do with how I want you to experience this story.

How It Started

When I first sat down to write, I intended this to be a memoir. I knew it would include my introduction to Phish in December 1993, how I got immersed in their fan community through the online channels available in 1995, and that Clifford Ball would play a role somewhere. Beyond that? I had no idea where the story would go.

So I did what I always do in ambiguous situations: I started with what I had and figured I'd work it out along the way.

The most common advice given to writers is "write what you know," so I started there—December 1993, my introduction to Phish, some family history for context. I thought if I just began, the rest would fall into place.

And it did. Fast.

Before I knew it, I had two chapters done and was thinking about the third. That's when I realized fiction might be a better fit for where I wanted the story to go.

I still planned to use the original memoir framework—my real Phish story, my real experiences—but I wanted room to get creative with characters and scenarios that would make a more compelling narrative. So I went back to those first two chapters, made a few adjustments to shift certain details from real to fictional, and continued forward.

What "Fiction, Influenced by Memory" Actually Means

Here's how it works in practice:

A scene might start with a real conversation I had, but the setting shifts from a dorm room to a concert parking lot. The person I'm talking to becomes a composite of three different friends. The emotional truth stays the same—the fear, the excitement, the uncertainty—but the specifics change to serve the story.

A character might be inspired by a real person, but their arc takes them places the real person never went. Their dialogue might include things that were actually said to me, mixed with things I wish had been said, or things I imagine they would have said in that situation.

Some chapters are almost entirely memoir—names changed, but otherwise true. Other chapters are pure invention built on a foundation of real feeling.

Most live somewhere in between.

Everything you read about Autumn's family history, her experiences growing up as the only child of a single mother, and her immersion in the Phish community is heavily autobiographical. The lines between fact and fiction start to blur around Chapter 3, but I'd rather not say exactly where or how.

Why I Won't Give You the Answer Key

My goal as a writer is for you to see yourself in these characters; to recognize your own experiences in theirs and maybe feel less alone in whatever you've been through.

If I tell you definitively which parts are memoir and which are fiction, I risk breaking that connection.

Let's say you read a scene where Autumn feels invisible, overlooked by people who should care about her, and you think, Oh my god, that's exactly how I felt in middle school. That connection is real. That recognition matters; it validates your experience.

But if I then tell you, "Actually, that scene is completely fictional—never happened to me," does that make your connection any less valid? Does it mean you were wrong to see yourself in it?

Of course not (for what it's worth, that part did happen).

Here's the truth: Everything in this book is what I know.

Some of it I know from firsthand experience. Some I know from being close to people who lived through it. Some I know from stories told to me by my mother, my friends, strangers at shows. Some I know from books I've read, movies I've seen, songs that gutted me.

It's all part of the human experience. It's all true in the ways that matter.