In the wake of Michael Jackson's sad passing, I've been thinking about a question that has preoccupied me for some time—whether fame contributes to happiness in any lasting way, or whether it actually does the opposite, ushering in anxiety and depression. Statistics suggest that, contrary to the creed of aspiring reality TV stars, high visibility is far from a foolproof happiness tonic. Jib Fowles, author of Star Struck: Celebrity Performers and the American Public, has noted that famous people are four times more likely to opt for suicide than your average Joe or Jane.

My personal experience with this issue—much smaller in scale than Michael's, of course—is that as I began writing for more prominent publications, my anxiety over what I'd written (Would someone be grievously offended by something I say? Would I somehow get a key issue wrong?) increased. I'm gratified knowing that people may gain some new knowledge or insight from what I've written and that I'm reaching more readers than I did before. But since the stakes seem higher, I'm also more fearful of making a misstep. On balance, am I happier than before? That's a difficult question to answer.

In the end, I think the fame-happiness connection may be one of those hot-stove issues. Just as kids are convinced the stove won't hurt them until they blister their fingers, fame-seekers are often convinced that notability will confer happiness, that they'll be the exception to all the tales of Hollywood discontent. That is, until they taste real fame for themselves and directly experience everything—good and bad—that comes with it.