From the bottom of the ladder
To the very top he came,
He had worked hard, Oh! For ages,
Till his name now rang with fame.
For his aim was now to be famous,
To be someone great and known,
That his name might live forever,
Even after HE was gone.
So he worked and toiled in patience,
Though twas often very hard,
And he kept on pushing forward,
Till he earned his reward.
'Patience' by Maisie Campbell (1916-1936)
'Patience' was one of many poems that an auntie of mine whom I had never known, wrote as an invalid from her sick bed. Fame, it seems, whether by the consumer or the fame seeker is a basic human need. Of course, since Andy Warhol, coined the notion that everyone has a possibility of obtaining 15 minutes of fame, it has become a Western obsession.
Traditionally, stars were movie actors, and musicians; more recently models, fashion designers and DJ's with reality TV now being the easiest way to gain a 15 minutes fix. What of artists and writers? Historically they had to be dead before graduating (which scarily defeats the purpose, if you want my oppinion). The artist Vincent Van Gogh, only ever sold one painting in his lifetime and the American poet Emily Dickinson, also had her work published after death. In fact, my dear aunt Maisie (above) had her work published posthumously, this blog being it.
So what of me, I am a writer do I crave fame? Apparently, when I was little, a favourite auntie once asked, what did I want to be when I grew up? I replied, "The Boss." Though I would imagine that writers pretty much crave fame, as they do make a half-hearted attempt by having their photograph on the backflaps of their books. If anyone is serious about becoming famous all they need to do is hire Max Clifford as their publicist. Simple.
My conclusion is that since fame is a fickle beastie, I'll accept my 15 minutes with lots of smiles and thankyou's and spend the rest of my time being the boss - which is a diva like position anyhow.