As if I’d know!
There are many levels of fame. Writers are way down on that list. How many authors could you recognize if you passed them on the street? I couldn’t recognize very many and I read more than anyone I know.
Still, I’m getting this question (How’s it feel to be famous?) a lot. In interviews, at work, and from wiseacres who know I’m not famous at all.
Being famous could certainly help sell more books. That would be nice. If my usefulness scaled with increased visibility, I’d be happy about that.
But I can’t think of a hollower, less worthy pursuit than fame.
More options? More freedom? Sure, sign me up.
More money? Why not? I like money.
Meeting more people? Absolutely, I like just about everyone and all of my favorite things require other people. Even reading requires authors who write the books I read.
But simply having more people be away of you just because? Nope. Then we’re venturing into the weird ghastliness of reality shows. The idea that you have less value than another person simply because more people are aware of that other person’s existence isn’t valid and it isn’t healthy.
Now: what’s everyone reading? I’m almost done with an advanced copy of Some Nerve and it’s wonderful.