When you write a book, and you invent some or all of the events told therein, that’s called “making shit up”.
Making shit up isn’t a bad thing at all. In fact, I routinely engage in it, and there are lots of people who make a fair living with it. The trouble is, when your book contains made-up shit, it belongs in the “Fiction” aisle at your local bookstore. Under no circumstances should you shop your book around as a “memoir”, land an agent, and then sell the thing to a major publishing house for publication as Stuff That Really Happened. In the age of the Intertubes, plagiarism and genre-inappropriate Making Shit Up sometimes get noticed, and then you have to return your advance, and kiss your literary credibility good-bye.