Bateman - Fame: the hijacking of reality

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Published by Akashic Books
2018 Justine Bateman

ISBN: 978-1-61775-660-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931219

Front cover Lombok typeface created by Krea Studio

First printing

Akashic Books
Brooklyn, New York, USA
Ballydehob, Co. Cork, Ireland
Twitter: @AkashicBooks
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E-mail: info@akashicbooks.com
Website: www.akashicbooks.com

For all the Seekers, willing to dig

Tornado

Hey, you want to go somewhere with me? Im talking about emotional time travel. You up for it? I want to show you the inside of something, of Fame, and the only way is for me to pull you in there with me. So, its me talking. Were going to go in there and Im going to tell you how it feels. Sometimes Im talking to you in this book and sometimes Im talking to someone who took a shit on me in the press or online. I dont want you to take it personally. Im going to trust you, when I pull you into this emotional tornado. Im going to trust you to know when Im talking to you and when Im talking to not-you. To know the difference. To know if Im talking to a friendly supporter, a person innocently curious about what Fame is like, or if Im talking to a malicious hater from my own memory. Just be in there with me. Let it toss you about.

OK. Get in the rowboat and lets go down the river.

Memoirs

I fucking hate memoirs. Im never going to write one. If you thought this was a memoir, put it back on the shelf, or get a refund, send it back. This isnt a shitty memoir. This book is about Fame. Its everything I can remember about being very famous, not so famous, and almost not-famous. Its about all the theories Ive drawn about Fame. Its also about society. Why we do the things we do when were face to face with Fame. I hate memoirs because I hate that anybody can write a memoir. You dont have to have any talent whatsoever as a writer or to have particularly good insights; just put down your life, the things you remember about your life. Everyones got one, a life story to tell. You dont even have to have lived an extraordinary life, just something, anything. You had a pulse for 47 years and then you wrote your memoir. And Im not talking about books about unique experiences like surviving a plane crash in the Alps or having been kidnapped. Those books can be compelling. Im talking about the expanded-Wikipedia-entry books. First of all, most people under 98 years old have no business writing a memoir. They just havent lived enough of a life yet. They havent lived enough of a life yet to really craft a proper dramatic arc of it. And, honestly, if your life is interesting enough to write a memoir at 98 years old, then dont bother. Just die and someone will write a biography about you. You will have been that interesting a person.

No, I hate memoirs. Im going out on a limb here, telling you this, because I have a few close friends who have written memoirs. Good, talented people. I hope they dont take offense. There are other people who have written memoirs; people whom I dont know but whom I respect. They may take offense and now never want to meet me because I said I hate memoirs. My friend Marcus mentioned some memoirs hes read that were good; real literary gems. I havent read them. There are a lot of books I havent read. So, sure, probably hundreds of these gems exist, memoirs that will blow your mind. Im sure someone will tell the world all about them, when they leave their critical review for this book online later: Justine Bateman opens her book with an ignorant rant about the memoir genre. Something like that. Thats OK.

I talked with a fair amount of book agents before finding the right one to represent me. Almost all of them wanted me to write a memoir, and not the book about Fame. Hey, maybe they thought I had lived a fascinating enough life for that, or maybe they just felt it was an easy sell. The book agent I finally really connected with never mentioned the word memoir. He just loved my writing, the subject matter of Fame, and said, Lets go. Hes also Noam Chomskys agent. The American intellect and national treasure, Noam Chomsky. If Noam Chomskys book agent isnt interested in this being a memoir, then no one else should be.

Even one of the publishers I met with, a big publisher, who I assumed was fascinated by the Fame subject matter because they had been anxious to set up a meeting, eventually hit me with, Wouldnt you rather write a memoir?

Me, in their office, having just talked about Fame, the sociological theories, my theories, my experience, the experiences of other famous people Id interviewed. Me, then announcing, Just so you know, Im not interested in writing any kind of memoir. They looked at me, eyebrows raised in that maybe-you-didnt-mean-that-arent-we-still-having-a-good-meeting kind of way. They half blurted out, Well, dont look around this room!

It was only then that I actually did look around the office, and noticed that the shelves were lined with memoirs. You name the person, this company has published their memoir.

Wouldnt you rather write a memoir?

Aw, you too?

What I did get out of that meeting, though, was a completely new direction for the book. Still about Fame (and not a goddamn memoir), but instead of the academic version I had already half-completed, rather a cut-to-the-bone, emotional-river-of-Fame book. (One that my current publisher loves, natch.)

Sheath

Theres this moment I keep flashing on. This scene. Im on a couch, in a room. Closed French doors in front of me. Im in Miami. At a friends place? A hotel? I dont know. Its in the early 90s, I think. 92, say. Im sitting there. Im alone. And I feel utterly lost as to how to handle people coming up to me, recognizing me. I had been solidly famous for a while. I was very famous. Cant-go-anywhere-without-people-reacting famous. So, Id had people coming up to me for a while. For a while. What was the fucking problem? Hadnt I had enough practice? Hadnt all those years of people coming up to me done it? Where was my resulting proficiency? Why wasnt I a pro at this now? I still, STILL did not have some reliable way to deal with the public. I so badly wanted some dependable blanket-manner to lean on when people came up. It just never came. I was on edge, on guard, on. Antennae up, all senses pumping, looking, watching, waiting, primed, tense. Hows it going to come at me? Its going to come at me. At what moment? What person, I mean what kind of person? A man. A dad? Wants an autograph for his daughter. So thats it, but then a curveball: he tries to flirt with me when I hand the paper back. Me, shift gears, pull back the smile, cut that shit off. Hes pushed into the arent-we-having-a-nice-moment-thinking-about-your-daughter and Whats her name? Me, writing, Cheryl, All the best, Justine Bateman, and handing it to him. He slips into that door thats wide open now, no suspicion necessary. The doors not just ajar or half-open with a foot wedged behind the back of it to limit it, but wide open. The daughter, right? Writing something for the daughter.

Then, I read that you dont wear underwear.

Yeah. Yeah. Y.E.A.H. Yeah, I remember that Playboy magazine interview. I said that. I said that. Oh shit, should I have said that? Surprised at seeing my interview verbatim, a fucking relief that I was finally seeing my words verbatim after years and pages and issues and interview after interview of having my words twisted or made up and shoved in my mouth so I sit there in print with the writers ripped and bloody assessment of me or angle, or whatever the fuck, spilling out of my mouth as if I had ever said any of that fucking shit or in that stupid way. Yeah, I remember that interview. Panty lines. Pantyhose under jeans on camera so thered be no panty lines. Thats what I said. THATS WHAT I SAID, YOU FUCK.