«Êtes-vous Mark Tungate?» asked the girl on the métro. I admitted that I was, although in retrospect perhaps I should have pretended to be a different slightly drunk man in glasses. That third dry martini was definitely a mistake. «Merci pour vos articles,» she added, before hopping off.
It was a handy incident, because I'd just been reflecting on the nature of fame. Earlier that evening, in the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz, I'd bumped into a funny, attractive lady named Véronique Augereau, who told me she was the French voice of Marge in The Simpsons. We agreed that she was the perfect celebrity – both famous and yet entirely anonymous.
Writers used to be like that. Apart from Véronique, the movie and TV world is divided into people who want to be famous, and famous people who complain about it. But writers walked a different path. They were shadowy, private figures. Writing a book or an article was like a flinging a Frisbee into the dark.
Then digital media come along. Thanks to blogs, tweets and status updates, writing has become an act of instant gratification. I'm as susceptible to this as anyone, but the rarity of moments like the one on the métro makes them more precious than a thumbs up on Facebook. You finally meet someone who caught your Frisbee. It's not fame, really. It's more like a pat on the back from your boss.
