It's no secret that in my younger days, I wanted to be a rock star.  It was simple, really.  I would compose cutting-edge but timeless music, with relevant but flippant lyrics, creative but mindless dance grooves, and inventive but totally catchy hooks.  And rock and roll babes would flock to me, asking for my autograph, tugging at my leather pants, undressing me with their eyes, but loving me for my mind.

Actually, I was never that naive.  But I was close.

You see, the greatest part of my naivete was not that I thought it was easy, nor that I thought I was good enough.  It was that I didn't realize how vain and fruitless the quest for fame is.

This striving toward celebrity is embedded in many of us artists, isn't it?  When we are brutally honest with ourselves—and some of us may not have the emotional quotient to understand ourselves with that degree of authenticity—we find that our drive can come from unhealthy places.  The  pride which bubbles beneath the surface of our public image; the inflated self-image that we are cooler, more talented, more deserving than we really are.  Or the poor self-image that drives us to posture and pretend, forever comparing ourselves with others and coming up short; the insecurities that drive us to succeed so that we might break the chains of our self-perceptions. Then there is the unstated and untrue belief that fame will somehow bring us happiness and love and acceptance.  Ultimately, the things that drive us to want celebrity may often be found in a complex web of lies such as these.

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