You don’t want to be famous

You really don’t. Sure, it makes you rich (usually). But it also makes you paranoid, insecure and self-obsessed. And, if you’re really unlucky, dead. Like poor Whitney Houston, with “recreated” photos of your corpse on the cover of The National Enquirer. The Aussie weekly magazines pay tribute to Whitney today. One is even on the stands three days early. Death sells. Well it did with Steve Irwin and Belinda Emmett, so they keep hoping to strike gold again. I don’t know how I feel about mourning Whitney’s death. I’m more inclined to mourn her life – she had the most amazing voice, beauty (before the drugs), an adoring daughter, was beloved by millions, yet it wasn’t enough. And that’s the other big problem with fame. It makes you numb. You can have anything you want, but nothing really satisfies. The “normal” thrills become boring, you’re desperate to “feel” something, so you explore stuff the Average Joe wouldn’t. You constantly wonder if people like you for yourself or your fame. You’re surrounded by “yes” people who tell you what you want to hear because you’re paying them. Many years ago I worked for Cosmopolitan magazine, interviewing celebrities. I spent hours with them at photo shoots. Sometimes we had dinner afterwards. OK, once. Watching the machine around them and their flimsy grasp on reality turned me right off being a celebrity. I used to be desperate for a piece of the fame game. Lacking musical or theatrical ability (aside from the week before my period), I decided my ticket to the Golden Globes was to date a star. I set my sights on David Duchovny. My obsession with David became legendary. The editor of Woman’s Day even called me once to check if I was the infamous Aussie fan sending him erotic jigsaw puzzles (no). I wanted to walk the red carpet, visit the gifting suites, be photographed at the cool restaurants. These days, not so much (well, maybe the gifting suites, just a bit). Nine years in the weekly magazine market finished me off. I learned a little too much about the tawdry realities of the fame game. None of which I could publish, because truth isn’t a defense in court. The longer I worked in that world, the less inclined I became to walk red carpets. These days I feel pity for people who measure their worth by their column inches or TV appearances. That’s not where happiness lies. Happiness – for me, at least – is about love, family, friendship. It’s going to parent information night and seeing a poem about “Mum” by Sprog 1, where I’m described as warm, cuddly like a jiggly jumper, and funny as Mr Bean. A friend sent me a blog last month, by musician Kristin Hirsch. It’s about walking away from fame and embracing life – http://www.kristinhersh.com/eden/. Check it out – she’s a smart woman.