***Disclaimer: I am not commenting on Amanda Knox’s innocence or guilt – nor I am interested in doing so. I am just drawing attention to the fact that people used her fiction against her.***


The Daily Beast excerpted Barbie Latza Nadeau’s forthcoming book Angel Face, about Amanda Knox, aka “Foxy Knoxy,” who was found guilty last year murdering her roommate Meredith Kercher in a “sex-play gone wrong” situation while they were living in Perugia, Italy in 2007.

Knox claimed innocence the whole time, and there’s new evidence that suggests she and her boyfriend were not, in fact, present when Kercher was killed.  If this is true, it means many, many things were messed up about this case, including the following.

During the trial, which received much more coverage in Italy and England, the Italian press used Knox’s (bad) short stories,  posted to her MySpace page, to paint their damning picture of Knox as a sexual predator.

The following excerpt of Knox’s story “Baby Boy”  is provided in Nadeau’s excerpt:

Kyle laughed deep in his throat. “Icky Vicky, huh? Jeez, Edgar. You had me going there.” He picked up his calculus book and flicked with his thumb to find his page, shook his head side to side with his smile still confident on his face. “A thing you have to know about chicks is that they don’t know what they want.” Kyle winked his eye. “You have to show it to them. Trust me. In any case,” He cocked his eyebrows up and one side of his mouth rose into a grin. “I think we both know hard A is hardly a drug.”

Nadeau writes:

“Whether or not Amanda meant to condone sexual violence, prosecutors took this story as proof that she had at least fantasized about it. It was there in her mind. Add drugs and alcohol, they reasoned, and it wouldn’t take long for such hidden thoughts to lead to action. And other MySpace entries, including this one, titled “The Model,” posted a few weeks before the murder, seemed to compound this picture of a young women with a vivid, vaguely lurid imagination”:

Small, cold fingers curled around my open hand and I gasped, ripping my hand away. Aislin, narrowed hazel eyes and immobile pink lips, flipped on the light of the stairway and stared at me. She was quiet, and the hand that had reached for mine hung limp in the space between us like the wrist was broken. I grabbed her hand back and held it to my lips, kissing the little fingers. It drew her closer to me and she pulled weakly for her hand back. “What are you doing?” I didn’t let her go, but grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the front window. “Did you lock the back door when you came home from school?”

“A picture was forming of Amanda as a vixen with dark impulses, and her family struggled to control the firestorm. They insisted that “Foxy Knoxy” was a nickname Amanda earned for her junior soccer moves, not her sexual magnetism.”

It’s annoying enough that parents and lovers find things in our fiction that make them wonder if we’re…of sound mind, and if we’re who we claim to be.   Now the law wants to misunderstand us too? It can’t be fair to hold someone’s fiction against them, can it?

Even this post could be incriminating.  The blogger doth protest too much!