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From Catapult:
Scratch
fame
“I want be recognized for beautiful work, for good work, for real work . . . Which is different than saying I want to be famous. If you want to be famous, don’t be a writer.”
17 thoughts on “Against Fame: On Publishing, Popularity, and Ambition”
I had to look up this famous author, Cheryl Strayed. I expected that she had written something fairly well-known, and I just didn’t recognize the name. Nope.
So I guess it’s true: fame is relative. Or quite possibly I’m just an uncultured lout.
Her book Wild was made into a movie starring Reese Witherspoon. My ex’s book club read it as one of their selections; it appears to have achieve whatever level of notoriety a book needs to be picked for book clubs to read.
Fame is relative. It is also a double-edged sword.
These days, fame makes you a target, so make sure whatever makes you famous is worth the grief to follow.
I don’t want to be famous. I just want to sell enough books to have a big estate in Hawaii and a Ferrari that I can lend to the private investigator who rents my beach house.
Works for me.
Ditto. With the addition that my novel research involves accompanying an Indiana Jones-type on his artifact hunts. And sword fighting. It’ll make the books more authentic if I can write from experience.
The writer dies in the end.
People get upset if you kill the dog, and that could hurt sales.
🙂
I’ve definitely decided to never kill the dog. Even if it’s a heroic death it’s still not a good idea 🙂
I killed a dog in one of my books. No one said a word.
LOL! Same here, but I’d have my estate in northern California, and an inconspicuous car to tootle around in. 🙂
Don’t forget the two dobermans, Edward. They’re key to the whole experience.
Stay away from Hawaii, we don’t need any more rich absentee landlords driving up the price of real estate. And since we are regularly several of the top ten slowest traffic spots in the US, so forget the Ferrari. TC in the helicopter is a better deal if you’re in a hurry.
Al the Great and Powerful Hawaii Resident
P.S. Club Hubba Hubba, the strip club/bar (where your private investigator met contacts) is gone, too. How’s your Korean, you’ll need it to talk to hostesses…
Back when Polish were told, they used to tell the one about the Polish starlet who went to Hollywood.
.
.
.
.
.
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she slept with the writer.
That’s exactly the joke I was going to dredge up, except in the version I heard it was just a young actress so naive she slept with the writer.
I’ve always expected to be famous. I’ve been waiting all my life. I’m a little bit famous, in a very tiny pool.
I have a small and deeply deluded following. I’m too faffin’ old to want much more.
No, wait — how about a large, deeply deluded following? Hmm, thinkin’ that one over.
Fame? Probably not. I’d like to make enough money to support myself and my collecting habits. Leave a little to my children so they can put something down on a house, or afford to have kids (not likely, sadly).
I had to look up this famous author, Cheryl Strayed. I expected that she had written something fairly well-known, and I just didn’t recognize the name. Nope.
So I guess it’s true: fame is relative. Or quite possibly I’m just an uncultured lout.
Her book Wild was made into a movie starring Reese Witherspoon. My ex’s book club read it as one of their selections; it appears to have achieve whatever level of notoriety a book needs to be picked for book clubs to read.
Fame is relative. It is also a double-edged sword.
These days, fame makes you a target, so make sure whatever makes you famous is worth the grief to follow.
I don’t want to be famous. I just want to sell enough books to have a big estate in Hawaii and a Ferrari that I can lend to the private investigator who rents my beach house.
Works for me.
Ditto. With the addition that my novel research involves accompanying an Indiana Jones-type on his artifact hunts. And sword fighting. It’ll make the books more authentic if I can write from experience.
The writer dies in the end.
People get upset if you kill the dog, and that could hurt sales.
🙂
I’ve definitely decided to never kill the dog. Even if it’s a heroic death it’s still not a good idea 🙂
I killed a dog in one of my books. No one said a word.
LOL! Same here, but I’d have my estate in northern California, and an inconspicuous car to tootle around in. 🙂
Don’t forget the two dobermans, Edward. They’re key to the whole experience.
Stay away from Hawaii, we don’t need any more rich absentee landlords driving up the price of real estate. And since we are regularly several of the top ten slowest traffic spots in the US, so forget the Ferrari. TC in the helicopter is a better deal if you’re in a hurry.
Al the Great and Powerful Hawaii Resident
P.S. Club Hubba Hubba, the strip club/bar (where your private investigator met contacts) is gone, too. How’s your Korean, you’ll need it to talk to hostesses…
Back when Polish were told, they used to tell the one about the Polish starlet who went to Hollywood.
.
.
.
.
.
.
she slept with the writer.
That’s exactly the joke I was going to dredge up, except in the version I heard it was just a young actress so naive she slept with the writer.
I’ve always expected to be famous. I’ve been waiting all my life. I’m a little bit famous, in a very tiny pool.
I have a small and deeply deluded following. I’m too faffin’ old to want much more.
No, wait — how about a large, deeply deluded following? Hmm, thinkin’ that one over.
Fame? Probably not. I’d like to make enough money to support myself and my collecting habits. Leave a little to my children so they can put something down on a house, or afford to have kids (not likely, sadly).