Perhaps there are two types of people in this world; those that strive to be famous and those that, by their own talent and/or luck, become famous.  We shouldn’t be as ignorant to encompass the mass of humanity into this generalization, but in modern culture, it‘s not a far-fetched assumption.  Who wouldn’t want to be the next Carrie Underwood or Leonardo DeCaprio?  And how about the vaulted athletes we envy that score touchdowns or make birdies before millions of viewers?  Could you even imagine signing a multi-million dollar contract? To see your name in lights, or hear a commentator’s voice announcing your triumphs to a packed stadium?  Who wouldn’t?  Or would you?

The recent death of the reclusive author J.D. Salinger has caused many to pause and reflect on his decision to retire after writing the quintessential ‘coming of age’ novel, Catcher in the Rye, and hibernate for 45 years in the mountains of New Hampshire.  Was his choice of isolation a product of fame itself or simply a life-long desire that was only noticed due to its adversity of other celebrities?  Whichever his reasoning for living a more remote lifestyle, his death has again brought his name into the limelight.    

In ‘61, I delivered the morning paper that headlined Ernest Hemingway had shot himself.  At 14, I remember how empty I felt when news came of Marylyn Monroe’s untimely death. And in 1963, I became paralyzed with fear when told, my President, Jack Kennedy had been murdered.  These three deaths shocked me as a young teenager and the possibility that our own culture‘s desire of fame was to blame has haunted me for years.  Why didn’t we know an open car would be an easy target for an assassin? Why did Marilyn succumb to constant scrutiny and demand of Hollywood? Were stories shared in Hemmingway’s work a cry for help?  Yet of anything, I mostly wonder if survivors of fame know a secret.  Did Salinger hit his home run and head for the locker room before the game was over?   Similar to Salinger, Harper Lee also shuns all praise and honor that a grateful world begs to pour out for her writing of To Kill a Mockingbird.  Unbeknownst to the masses, she has been living in the same small town of Monroeville, Al where she was born and will peacefully, die, for the majority of her life.  This year mark’s the 50th anniversary of her acclaimed novel, yet she intends to stay warmly at home and ignore any glorifications.   The fame of an author is unlike that of any celebrity.  Anonymity is granted as their words and stories are their legend.     

Fame is abnormal, and thus a burden to carry everyday and to share your life with the world.  I respect those reclusive authors whose signatures are so rare, and I admire their simple ways in the midst of fame and glory.  They share a piece of their soul, words and ideas powerful enough to become immortal.   The beauty is that their celebrity is not required, the words are gift enough, for every new reader gives new birth to the story, and an author‘s life is shared once more. If you could play the fame game, what type of celebrity would you choose to be, and why?