As a kid, I wanted to be remembered. I wanted to have a Wikipedia page.
I remember voraciously reading successful individuals’ Wikipedia pages, poring over each person’s “Early life and Education” sections as though they were instruction manuals. To me, having a Wikipedia page was its own accolade. It announced that this person was important. They were someone who deserved to be known by the masses.
This is probably why I decided to pursue screenwriting. I dreamt of having my name plastered across a screen, memorialized in film. I understood that screenwriters weren’t the headliners (reader, can you even name 5 screenwriters?), but they were fame-adjacent in the public’s eyes and well-known among the in-crowd.
I wanted to be thought of as important, likely because I felt so comparatively unimportant when I was an adolescent.
What I thought was teen angst and run of the mill shyness later turned out to be generalized anxiety disorder and maybe depression and possibly PTSD (my current therapist can’t be sure).
During my junior year, my friends would joke that I never came to school. At least one Friday a month, I’d stay home “sick”. On these days, getting out of bed felt both under- and overwhelming all at once. And I simply didn’t see the point - I could sleep all day and still get good grades. And so I would lay in bed and dream of shrinking so small that I simply ceased to exist.
Of course, all of the best artists were tortured in some way, no? I thought, Maybe, once I’m famous, the pain will have been worth it. Maybe this is how things must be in order for me to be remembered. I began to believe that the strength of my writing was dependent on my unhappiness. And so I didn’t seek help or even voice that I might need it. The prospect of success made the pain feel bearable and necessary.
I eventually realized that fame would not improve my mental health or make me happy. In fact, it’d probably make things worse.
As I entered my 20s and graduated from college, my view of fame changed. I began to see celebrity coverage and discourse in a new light, and saw how fickle and unknowable public opinion could be. I moved to Los Angeles, working in the entertainment industry with some of these individuals who were adored by millions. I saw how exhausting it can be to keep up this polished facade and how quickly the tide can turn against you.
At the same time, I found that I was writing scripts less and less. I questioned myself and where my motivation had gone. I worried that I was becoming lazy and complacent - I was finally in the realm of what I’d wanted for almost 10 years and seemed to be squandering my chances by not writing. What was wrong with me?
It seemed my motives had shifted. I didn’t really care about being famous anymore. My understanding of fame had curdled as I saw the unromantic reality of it play out as an adult.
Screenwriting no longer excited me because I no longer wanted to reap the fruits I once imagined it could bear. To be widely known seemed like a curse, an invitation to be misunderstood. A flattening of self into a commodity to be sold and marketed and squeezed until there was nothing left.
I understood that my initial motivation for writing was no longer meaningful. And so the journey began of finding my way back to writing, and understanding what I wanted to say rather than what I wanted to gain.
A big part of that journey has been this newsletter. I admittedly don’t have that many subscribers but, to be honest, I don’t check the number often because it doesn’t actually matter. Sometimes I’ll see other writers on this platform with subscriber lists in the thousands and higher. Sometimes I’ll feel a little discouraged and jealous when thinking of my comparably paltry audience. But then I remind myself that that’s not the point. The mere act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and having someone, anyone, read is enough.
Sometimes old friends who I haven’t spoken to in years will text me and say that a recent essay resonated with them. My mom reads and “likes” every one of my essays, usually sending a text afterwards (“I read your article agin. This time aloud to Dad. Deep.”). These small moments mean so much to me and more than if my name was lit up on a marquee.
I used to believe that fame and legacy were inextricably tied together. That being remembered only mattered if certain people and certain numbers of people knew your name. I’ve spent the past few years untangling those two concepts. I now understand that I want to build a legacy, not a fan base.
If I do end up getting a Wikipedia page, maybe this part of my life will be filed under “Early Career”. Hopefully by then, if that point ever comes, I won’t even realize my page exists. I’ll be too busy enjoying life and creating a smaller kind of legacy among those I know rather than strangers I don’t.
I recently finished reading Yellowface by R.F. Kuang and absolutely loved it. It’s definitely one of the more popular books right now, and for very good reason. It explores race, the publishing industry, who’s “allowed” to write what, and a host of other topics in a really engrossing way. Though fame is not necessarily one of the main themes, June Hayward (the main character) and her preoccupation with renown was on my mind as I wrote this essay.
Anyways, that’s all from me. As always, thank you for reading :)
Xoxo,
Mia
This was a great read. It reminded me of the journey I'm currently on.