Writers not yet ready for red carpet roll out

All Things Literary

The idea of celebrity seems to be unbecoming of authors. I think of the word "celebrity" and I think of sleek and seamless supermen and women followed around by photographers the way remoras follow sharks along the floors of T.S. Eliot's "Silent Seas." I think of actors and singers, but never those responsible for putting words in their mouths — the flock of playwrights and songwriters that go by almost unnoticed.

It's hard to create a visual image of a writer being hounded by the press. Even the King Kongs of popular literature seem lucky enough to avoid the photographic scrutiny of paparazzi and public alike.

You never see photos of authors posing in complex cliques as they make their way to a book signing at Waldenbooks, stopping every 10 steps and executing a curt 360-degree turn for the fans and photographers lining the red carpet. Such pomp and spectacle is a right seemingly reserved for movie premieres and opening-night performances.

For most writers, the only photographing evidence of their existence is on the back flap of a dust jacket.

Then again, is this necessarily a bad thing? I don't profess to know many writers, but from what I hear and know about them and their craft, it seems to me that they would make poor celebrities to begin with. Imagine with me for a moment (I promise you'll return safe and sound in a few minutes) an awards show for authors.

Remember that we're not talking about quiet galas like the National Book Award or Pen/Faulkner Award ceremonies. Those ceremonies have the popular resonance of a drop of water in a vast ocean and only can be seen on Book-TV during early-morning channel surfs. I'm talking an Oscar- or Golden Globe-caliber ceremony, complete with vapid pre-show interviews, honorary awards and tributes and a total telecast running time of just under five hours. Heck, we even could bring Joan Rivers or Dick Clark out of cryogenic hibernation for this one.

Just try and comprehend all your favorite living authors wandering along the red carpet like a heard of cattle making their last mile before the slaughterhouse. Imagine them resplendent in top-of-the-line dresses and tuxedos. What would they say? Who would mingle with whom? Of course, if Harper Lee or J.D. Salinger were up for awards, their empty seats would be filled with cardboard place cards. How many reclusive writers would be invited, knowing that they avoid publicity as if it were a nasty case of Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome?

For that matter, how many award categories can one have for a book? Best Novel, OK. Best Non-Fiction, sure. Best Character? Best Villain? Doubtful.

If you've gotten lost in this fantasy (or if your index finger is itching to turn to the sports section), let me draw you back by saying that, in short, any kind of major award show for authors would be nothing short of disastrous. Aside from quiet, polite ceremonies denied by major broadcasts, I don't think writers are cut out for the same massive, bubbling events as actors.

Writing is a faceless (and some would say thankless) art — it's about the words, not about how much weight a writer gained to take on his or her new novel or how a playwright changed his or her entire lifestyle to understand better the characters he or she is composing.

These notions of celebrity don't mesh well with the romantic ideal of "The Writer," and, well, they shouldn't. Authors should leave such petty fluff to actors.