In my teenage years, I harboured a desire for fame. I took no concrete steps to achieve it, yet I often fantasised about being profiled in Vogue, displaying my supposed beauty and coolness, and selecting eight obscure indie tracks for Desert Island Discs. My frequent listening to Radio 4 was, I thought, further evidence of my sophistication. However, as I matured, fame transformed into something dreadful.
The Horrors of Modern Fame
Fame has likely always been terrible—consider the starlets of the golden age who were used, abused, and discarded by the studio system. But today, it is especially insidious. Lena Dunham's new memoir, Famesick, candidly details the distorting effects of internet-era global celebrity: how it warps relationships, self-image, and every interaction. Dunham describes the relentless torrent of online hatred and visceral disgust, noting how she compulsively counted the number of times she was called "fat" or "ugly" on Twitter. She recounts how friends, acquaintances, and strangers treated her as a "bottomless resource," and the toxic impact of fame on her mental health.
From the tabloid-driven horrors of the 1990s and 2000s to the smartphone-enabled, always-visible existence that public figures endure, modern fame possesses "the vibe of an abusive ex-husband," as Chappell Roan put it. The toll is evident: numerous stints in rehab, tight-lipped press releases citing "exhaustion," and the beleaguered, wary manner in which celebrities live—understandably paranoid and fiercely private.
Everyone Is a Little Famous Now
But consider this: are we not all somewhat famous now, suffering similar ill effects? As comedian Larry Owens remarked at one of Dunham's launch events, "Everyone with a phone is in the public eye, so we're all at risk of being famesick in some way." This notion is also central to journalist Megan Garber's new book, Performance Anxiety, excerpted recently in The Atlantic. Garber argues that people whose lives are mediated by social media and smartphones are imbued with a twitchy main-character energy—we present ourselves publicly online and feel uneasily watched. This induces stage fright, "adding new uncertainty to what were once mundane interactions, tweaking people's nervous systems, unsteadying their very sense of self."
I can relate to that. I am not a nano-influencer, nor even a pico-influencer, but one does not need to be for that sense of being obscurely on display to colour how one moves through the world. If I chose to, I could share my desert-island indie tracks with my online "audience"—comprising bots, my cousin, a local greyhound, and a handful of nice women my age who used to read my blog. I could show them what I am eating, invite them to "get ready with me," or offer my hot take on a hot topic. This would not seem grandiose or ridiculous; it is now entirely normal. I occasionally do some of these things, and I enjoy watching others do them even more.
The Unpleasant Reality of Micro-Fame
But is it truly normal? We are anxious; we are lonely; expensive, painful cosmetic enhancements are becoming ubiquitous. Less dramatically, but more pervasively, it feels difficult to love what you love without wondering who is watching, whether to post it, and what reaction you will receive.
Celebrities have long told us that fame is not all it is cracked up to be. Now that many of us are experiencing a microdose, it turns out they were right. We are not enjoying it—and why should we? We do not get the good bits: free stuff, invitations to cool events, meeting amazing people, or money. No wonder people are going offline or taking social media sabbaticals; I wish I had their willpower. Performing life is no way to live.
A Hopeful Future?
For consolation, I tell myself that we may be living through a particularly painful part of a trajectory that will eventually land us in a less fretful and self-conscious place. Perhaps, in the future, no one will be famous, not even for 15 minutes. The attention economy will become so fragmented and overwhelming that we will not have the mental energy to engage with anyone unless their online brand precisely aligns with our interests. My audience would be seven York residents who like fancy bantams; yours could be 14 gluten-free scone aficionados in Norwich. Maybe that would feel manageable. Alternatively, and more appealingly, perhaps we will break free from social media—maybe even throw our smartphones into the sea before the whole world needs to check into rehab.
