Not-Floundering Friday #3: On the Fantasy and Reality of Literary Stardom

Cold Truths, Survival Tactics, and Warm Blankets for Surviving (and Loving) the Writing Life

In last Friday’s Not-Floundering discussion, my former student, Antonio Stefan, noted some disquieting feelings of self-recognition when reading Carmen Maria Machado’s comments about how the dream of literary stardom can overwhelm the desire to do the actual work.

The thing is, though, I don’t know any writer— of any age, or, even more importantly, at any level of perceived accomplishment—who doesn’t cling to at least the vestiges of that dream. No matter how much peace and challenge and joy the actual work has brought to days, no matter how many markers or goals one has met or surpassed, that dream buzzes around in our sleep or at the mouth of the cave where our healthier dreams await us.

Is it partly an American thing, maybe? A side effect of the disregard-verging-on-contempt with which the (overwhelming) majority of Americans view art as profession, even as they devour content? An intuitive—and deadly accurate— understanding that few of the markers by which westerners traditionally measure success actually reflect or predict the quality or lasting appeal of one’s art? A suspicion—deadly accurate, again— that the whole machinery of stardom is rigged, and not by you? A creeping certainty that no one, least of all you, will ever know if what you’ve devoted your life to creating is any good?

Here’s the only antidote I’ve ever come up with. It’s the little prayer stone of knowledge that both gets me to sleep and then back up to work:

The whole idea of literary stardom is hilarious. Monty Python “Argument Clinic”-level absurd. Not just illusory, or useless, or harmful, but meaningless even if you think you’ve achieved it. As fulfilling and enjoyable as playing baseball with a pancake.

Here are just a few cold truths about literary “stardom” that really do serve as warm blankets for me. Reminders that nothing in that cupboard is what I came in here for:

1. The most meaningful comments you’ll ever get on your books— the ones that feel most connected and in response to anything you might have crafted—are probably going to come from people you don’t know. You also may never see them unless those readers @-you. And let’s say you do see the comments…and so do lots of other people. What that means is…some other people you don’t know have seen those words. Maybe they’ll go find your words some day.

2. Those glamorous signing events? They mostly take place in bookshops, in bad lighting, at ridiculous times. If you get really famous, the shop might print out a pixilated web photo of you and post it in the window for a few days, then lend you an overworked and stressed employee to open books to the page where you’re meant to sign, and to rush through customers who’ve made time in their busy lives to come meet you. If you get really, really famous, someone might pick you up at the bus station or airport when you come to town (assuming you can afford the travel. Unless you get off-the-chart famous, in which case maybe someone will pay for the flight. And order you a sandwich).

3. Self-promotion is an entirely separate skill. A (very) few writers are great at it. But consider: how often do you see a book trending, anywhere, because it’s a book, and not because it’s now a Netflix show or accidentally drew down a troll swarm? More importantly, if you do achieve that sort of stardom— meaning name recognition, a follower tally you can’t count on your digits, and that you take pride in—you almost certainly did that in major part because of your self-promotion/networking skills. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. But you’re going to know it.

4. Getting something you wrote filmed…yes, that sounds good to me, too. Unlikely to be life-changing monetarily in the ways we all once imagined, but nice. Hope it happens, for me and for you. Maybe it will get us more readers. Nowhere near definitely. Might, though. Either way, what getting filmed typically means is that someone (who may or may not have read you) thought something you generated could be bent or shaped to fit the algorithm. Still. This is one of the more meaningful markers on this list, to me— mostly because it also means that at least a few of the people involved in that process got inspired to make new art by my/your art.

5. Awards? Like affectionate reviews (the ones you don’t purchase, or trade for), they’re nice. Not without meaning. You should absolutely celebrate or at least let yourself feel good if you get one, or even come close. But it’s important to remember that even the most rigorously, ethically judged awards are often a testament to networking skills at least as much as they are markers of merit. And even when they’re markers of merit, they’re (obviously) subjective, dependent on who’s judging, and when, and who’s whispering in their ears, and what’s happening in the world beyond words. That’s as it should be. Again, nothing nefarious about it. But knowing that it’s true should help keep you from attaching too much meaning, or delusions of conferred grandeur, or bitterness about imagined unjust denial of same, to anything you do or don’t win.

6. What else are you dreaming? Better pens? Warmer light? The adoration of strangers? Grudging respect from tough-love parents? Bragging rights at your next reunion that you probably shouldn’t go to, anyway? Famous people DM-ing you back? Hey, could all happen. I wish you whichever of the above you long for. I still wish a bit more of it for me, sometimes. Here’s something I’ve found not only more likely, though, but in the end, more sustaining:

   Keep at this long enough, and there’s a not-quite-astronomical chance that you might spot someone reading something you wrote on a train someday. Or have someone go to the trouble of filling out a contact form, navigating your Captcha protocols, and taking the time to tell you that something you created meant something to them. Enriched their lives, or provided comfort, or inspired them.

   Shoot for that. It’s not only attainable, it just might be all the stardom you’ll ever need.