Quinn Cummings, that girl who was in that movie — you remember, right? — might be happier if maybe you didn’t remember:
My partner, Daniel, insists that I am — and I quote — an “antisocial freak.” I counter that with “no, I’m a contented introvert,” leading him to suggest that’s precisely how an antisocial freak would describe herself. Either way, it is safe to say I’m the sort of person who would consider being loudly noticed by a stranger in public a thing best avoided, like exposure to SARS or a Jimmy Buffett concert. And yet, when you’ve been in the public eye, no matter how briefly, no matter how long ago, you will be noticed from time to time for the rest of your life. After three decades, you’d think I’d be better at this former child actor thing, but I’m not.
There is, of course, no cure:
Modern American culture assumes extroversion is the default setting for human interaction. It looks at us as an undifferentiated mass of life forms, longing for the next new moment in the spotlight, the next boisterous barbeque, or the next holiday party crammed to the rafters. Some of us are indeed like that. But many of us, probably from within days of conception, are hardwired to warm up slowly, need fewer people, and be easily overwhelmed.
Yea, verily. I never really wanted my fifteen minutes of fame, and stretching it over a twenty-year period doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. Yet here I sit, pounding away at the keyboard for the umpteen-thousandth time. What makes it work, I think, is that I don’t actually have to knock on doors and hand out copies of whatever it is I’m typing.