I am the after school taxi service for four junior high girls. One of these girls loves to call me “the famous author” every time she hops in my car. I pretend a sigh and tease her about what she wants me to autograph next. In the back of my mind her “famous” comments bring on wistfulness thoughts of what it might be like, yet at the same time part of me cringes.
One, fame is hard to achieve. If you think about the billions of people on this earth you start to realize how slim your chances really are at finding it. If this was my only reason for writing, then every small achievement becomes worthless. What if I never become famous? Does that mean I failed? Jeez, I hope not.
Second, fame is not all sunshine and roses. The more popular you become, the more eyes you’ll have watching your every move. Holy cow, I’m not perfect at anything. I’d have a slew of critics in no time.
Third, fame brings a constant pressure to top whatever you created last. Even I’m guilty of doing this to my favorite music artists, authors, and actors. If their next album, book, or movie doesn’t thrill me as much as the last one I feel like they let me down. It’s unfair of me. I’m sure they’re giving their best effort, just like I am. And I don’t care who you are—you can’t please everyone all of the time.
This is my conundrum—I truly believe the character transformation in the Rory Choice series is a worthwhile read for every young woman, which requires me to get the word out and generate a fan base. So yeah, for the sake of what this story can do for young girls, I need to become famous. I just wish there was a way to ensure the ugly side of fame wouldn’t be my lot as well.