I was asked if I ever got caught up in being famous. Um, no.
First, that requires one to be famous. I’m not. There are about 50,000 people on the planet that read my books. And while that is 50,000 more than knew me 4 years ago, it still doesn’t make me famous.
Second, even if there were more than 50,000 people on the planet that knew me, I would still not be famous. Remember, I write with a pen name and while it wouldn’t be that difficult to figure out who I really was, no one cares enough to do it. My pen name might be famous, but that’s kind of like Kim Harrison. Kim Harrison is famous, but it’s a pen name. Her real name is Dawn something and nobody cares enough to figure it out. Dawn is not famous, Kim is.
Third, I might be smart, I might be talented, but I’m a dork. If one day, I do get famous, I will be more excited about meeting the people who read my books than they would be in meeting me. Hell, I’m shocked 50,000 people have read any of my books. I occasionally have to stop and go, really? I sold how many books today? Did everyone forget that there are other authors on the planet? Yep, that’s the way I think. It’s not a matter of low self-esteem, my self-esteem is in tact, it’s just wonderment that other people actually like my writings. If I was a reader, I’d read them, but I read a lot of shit that nobody else does.
Fourth, prying me out of my pajamas is difficult. Getting me to put on pants that aren’t jeans is nearly impossible. Being famous requires one to have a “look.” If I had a look, it would be pajamas, but I won’t wear them in public, so we’d have to go with jeans and T-shirts. Some people pull this off just fine, but I can’t think of one that’s a girl. When was the last time Sandra Bullock showed up on the red carpet in faded blue jeans and a T-shirt with a band logo on it? Then there’s hair, make-up, etc and I tried to worry about those things but it got old after a day.
Finally, my life will always remind me that I’m pretty human. Last week, I was walking into the kitchen and tripped on the dining room floor. Miraculously, I didn’t fall or hurt/break anything, but this is the stuff I do all the time. I’m clumsy. I don’t make graceful entrances or graceful exits. The very act of walking is always one that could end badly. It’s hard to get caught up in yourself, when you know, that if you split your attention between walking and making an entrance, you’re going to break an arm.