It’s still so weird to me that the guy who wrote the fault in our stars and experienced global adulation and then global reprobation from the backlash and everything from SNL skits to being soft canceled on tumblr ….
was me.
Like, that guy was me. He lived in the same house I live in. One time he walked down to the river and cried and then yelled at himself for crying because who cries about having such a ridiculously good life.
I guess my big takeaway from that whole experience is 1. past me gave current me a lot of opportunities and freedoms for which I am grateful, including the opportunity to support cool people doing cool stuff, and the freedom to write about whatever I want (a memoir in the form of five-star reviews! A book about tuberculosis and its discontents!).
And also 2. the actual experience of Proper Fame is so unpleasant that I do not know how anyone who lives with regular pop culturey fame continues to seek it after getting a good hit of it. I admire the people who do–they get to make a lot of difference in the world in many cases. I am just baffled by them.
I would like to write books that seek large audiences again someday, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to. I may need to stay in these small happy places where I’ve been able to live over the last five years.
But the complicated and ever-evolving tension between on the one hand wanting to have my own life, a life that truly and fully belongs to me, and on the other hand wanting to make stuff that is beloved by people and useful to them and so on … it’s a hell of a labyrinth to navigate, and I’m nowhere near out of it.