Screw it. Let’s do creative writing today.
Being famous sucks. Hold on, put down your pitchforks, and extinguish the torches. It’s exactly what I always wanted. I get paid to do what I love every single day, and nothing could ever replace that feeling. I get to do things and meet people and I love getting to do all the things that I dreamed of. I have enough money invested that I will never have to work again, and my daughter, Celeste probably won’t actually NEED to either. There’s so much I love waking up to every day, but being famous still sucks.
I always dreamed of being a successful musician, but I never thought it would happen this quickly. One open mic night, in the right bar, in the right town, with the right song and a record exec sitting there. Then 6 months later I can’t attend all the appearances that they’re calling about, and my face has been on magazine covers across the world. I haven’t dropped below 4th on the iTunes artist or album chart since we released.
I’ve heard all the reasons people don’t like being famous before but none of those things bother me. I’m not so concerned about the privacy, the photos, being a role model, or everyone wanting something from me. I love feeling needed and important. I always craved acceptance from people, especially my mother. Somehow, acceptance from complete strangers was even more exciting. It was like rocket fuel for my music the first time someone I didn’t know asked me to sign the CD they’d bought at a show. What really keeps me from sleeping is that I have no idea who I am anymore.
I thought I knew who I was before when I spent every spare minute scribbling lyrics and chords in a notebook. I never left home without paper and a pencil in one pocket or another. I even have a long time friend that calls me Pockets because of all the shit I keep with me. I was always staring off into space trying to work out that one particular lyric, or identify that specific chord change that just helped everything make sense. I identified as a “musician.” I let that be who I was. I grew my hair out, and I shopped at the thrift store for vintage boots and shirts. I spent most of my paychecks on new guitar equipment. I even let my parents take care of Celeste after her mother left us. All because I told everyone I was a “musician.” I was really just looking for an identity to hold on to.
Now that I am what I always said I was, now that I’m rich and famous and I can do anything that I want, I don’t know who I am anymore. I still wake up smiling everyday. I still love making music and talking with fans. I get so excited to do talk shows because they always ask such interesting questions, and I love to tell stories. While all of those things are fun and exciting, none of it MEANS something to me the way daydreaming about songs used to. Nothing drives me with that singular focus the way songwriting used to. Even writing new material comes easy like it never did before.
It may sound silly, but living my dream isn’t as fulfilling as I thought it would be.