Amy Griffin’s debut novel, The Tell, is undeniably fearless and often critically dissected. The Tell was sent my way last month, gifted to NU’s Her Campus. Though her notoriety came before my time, I’ve yet to be disappointed by one of Oprah’s picks (most recently, I read Tell Me Everything by Elizabeth Strout).
Before delving into the book itself, it’s important to understand who Amy Griffin is. Griffin’s company, G9 Ventures, is known for early-stage investments in female- and wellness-focused brands. Her investments include companies like Goop, by Gwyneth Paltrow, and Hello Sunshine, by Reese Witherspoon. Socially, Griffin and her husband are part of a small group of New York socialites — an informal billionaire’s club reminiscent of Gossip Girl.
Griffin’s memoir is a far cry from this world of celebrity and wealth. Instead, it’s a reflection and story about coming to terms with childhood abuse. At face value, and in the aftermath of the #MeToo movement, the book is definitely good: Griffin is brave enough to tell her story, inspiring enough to show other women they’re not alone, and relatable enough to help cultivate a community of care and acceptance.
But, as described in a New York Times critique, the real story is a bit more complex. First, in the book, Griffin describes these memories as being “recovered” in her late thirties and early forties. Recovered or repressed memories are as controversial as the man who theorized them, Sigmund Freud. Since their introduction into Freudian psychoanalytic theory in the 1890s, repressed memories have divided the field of psychology. Quantitatively, studies generally conclude that these memories are just plain false. When the memories themselves haven’t been disproven, the methods to “unlock” those repressed memories have. Qualitatively, however, psychology remains captivated by the haunting narratives and fringe examples of supposedly “legitimate” repressed memories. Additionally, traumatic memories can often incite feelings of uncertainty, which are sometimes confused with this phenomenon.
Adding more to Griffin’s already controversial story is how Griffin says she accessed these memories. She describes the time prior to “discovering” these memories as feeling like she was running from something, but not knowing what it was. To help her understand, she experimented with MDMA, the psychoactive ingredient in recreational drugs like Ecstasy or Molly. While on MDMA in a “therapeutic session” with a “professional,” Griffin says she had this epiphany, visualizing these instances of abuse from her childhood.
It’s important to clarify that even if Griffin’s memories are unreliable and even if repressed memories don’t exist, Griffin’s emotional trauma in the aftermath was real. The process, feelings, and recovery presented in the book can’t be discounted. Critics of Griffin’s book are asking the wrong question: it’s not Is the trauma real? or Are her feelings real? Both things are presumably true, and it sets a dangerous precedent when we are denying the vulnerability, truth, and emotion of a formidable woman like Amy Griffin.
Instead, the question is: Is it right? It’s a question of privilege, of power, a question of whether Griffin’s approach to the situation was somewhat careless when it came to the people involved. It’s about a powerful woman who no one questioned, and the professionals who didn’t interrogate or ask questions about the root of Griffin’s trauma and the best way to approach it. It’s about the people who offered a one-million-dollar book deal without questioning Griffin’s resolve. It’s about the ways money and privilege infiltrate important stories, and how they can preclude the truth and dilute the meaning of narrative.
Let’s take a step back and approach Griffin’s book and her story through a more conscious lens. First, according to the Times, Griffin was offered $1 million to tell her story, and her original book proposal included a list of people willing to promote the book upon publication. Of the more than 90 names, there was a myriad of celebrities, most of whom were personal friends with Griffin or owners of companies she’s invested in. Griffin is a fantastic businesswoman and investor, and in some ways, this book is evidence of that.
Griffin’s proposal did not use pseudonyms for her abuser or other significant characters. This made it dangerously easy to uncover the identity of the “Mr. Mason” (the pseudonym used in the final book), Griffin describes. As described in the Times, we know Mr. Mason has a family, friends, a reputation in the small town of Amarillo, Texas, and lives off a teacher’s salary. Though we may not know more about his identity, we can easily presume that the teacher does not have the same means as Griffin, whose income likely falls in the billions of dollars. The book’s lack of basic protections for Mr. Mason, even if he is a serial predator, is potentially unethical given the total lack of tangible evidence:
Aren’t we innocent until proven guilty?
On that note, it’s important to mention that the book was never fact-checked by its publisher. An officer who was featured in the book, giving his utmost support to Griffin, found her recollection somewhat misleading. He told the Times that while he was enthusiastic about his support of Griffin’s case and remains ready to take legal action if more information comes to light, he remained somewhat frustrated because Griffin never informed him that her story was a recovered memory, and that recovery happened via the use of a recreational drug that was most recently rejected by the FDA in 2024.
The aftermath of the book proved even more problematic than the actual book and the forethought that went into it. The detective cited above, and many others, anticipated that the book’s publication would finally make other students abused by Mr. Mason come forward and tell their stories. The community of Amarillo watched and waited: the behaviors described by Mr. Mason in Griffin’s book are descriptive of a serial predator, and Griffin writes she has no doubt there are other victims. The detective added to this, explaining that in his experience, in cases like these, the kind of publicity and support Griffin’s story got would unquestionably bring forward at least one more victim.
In this case, it did not.
Still, the book shook the small Texas community, as neighbors shot suspicious looks at each other. The Times sat in on a local discussion of the book, where participants pointed out that Griffin’s family was the most well-regarded and the wealthiest in the town, and it seemed illogical that a predator would (A) only ever abuse one child, and (B) that child would be the most privileged, influential child in the small community.
Meanwhile, on the Upper East Side, Griffin was on a serious promotional campaign. The book was added to Oprah’s Book Club and further supported by an army of influential celebrity spokespeople.
If you’re a person who requires closure, this book is not for you. Griffin’s journey is centered around her battle with closure, and its ending is illustrative of how she sees resolve: as an acknowledgment that justice and tied ends are elusive. It’s undoubtedly a good read in isolation — well-written, inspiring. But when it comes to The Tell, context is everything. The book itself is a small part of a much larger story: a story about a man we do not know, a community reduced to stereotypes, and a woman with more power and money than all the other characters combined. Yet the moral of Griffin’s story remains true: closure, justice, and endings are indeed elusive.