My Dad's First Book

Wanting to Be Famous

It’s tricky business being in the spotlight all the time. You can claim it’s for your business. I do. It is. There’s also a greediness to it. Requiring validation feels sticky in my sternum; is somthing you have to be careful with.

Ever since I was a little girl, and even before this moment, I’ve always wanted to be famous. I realize this is the least attractive thing to admit. My dad had his first book, Fielder’s Choice published in 1992 when I was 9. I remember dancing around the living room, all of us spinning in a circle when the first copy arrived at our doorstep. We took pictures on an iron bench outside, me and the brothers. And there were whispers of the book rights being bought by producers and turned into a movie. I asked Dad if I could be in the movie, and he said yes. I was off to the races.

I saw myself on the red carpet. Arm in arm with Devon Sawa or Johnathan Taylor Thomas (JTT) or one of the dreamboats glue-tacked to my wall in glossy poster. Wanting to be famous is not something you broadcast to other people. It’s not really what a man wants in a life partner or what parents want their kids going to school for. Regardless I kept the seed dreem buried in my chest for safe keeping. It wasn’t like I thought I was that cute. From day one, I’d been told relentlessly that I had a round face. At some point around that time, I remember asking my dad if I was pretty, to which he replied after too much forethought, “You’re above average!” Pragmatic and scientific-minded, he was all too pleased with his response. I, however, less so. It’s funny looking back on these things and thinking about how they shaped me. For so long, I blamed him for not believing I was beautiful. What a relief to realize it’s still one of the best stories I’ve got. I wouldn’t be who I am without that story. Who hasn’t experienced that feeling? It’s universal.

I don’t feel imbalanced at the moment with social media stuff. I used to. Especially before the divorce when I was trying to distract myself from the fact that it needed to happen. I reached for external validation like a drug to distract me from the fact that I wasn’t living a life that was true to me. A form of escapism. Aye.

The more I practice showing up, however unglamorous, the easier it is to find that validation from within. I’m not trying to be somebody I’m not anymore. There’s not as big a gap between what I’m saying and what I’m doing. I don’t know if that makes sense.

If I’d gotten famous at 9 with Devon Sawa on my arm, I might have become an alcoholic way sooner. I might have tripped on a high heel, fallen on my face, crawled into a hole, and died. I might not have wondered how hard it would be to convince Oprah’s hair and makeup that I wasn’t going to wear any.