I know too much about Joan Didion. I’ve seen her image on tote bags and Celine ads; I’ve scrolled past her beautiful sulking face on countless Instagram feeds; I’ve streamed multiple documentaries about her. You’ll notice that I’m not describing her work; I’m describing her fame: the Didion spectacle. I’m impatient with this fame of hers. I believe she is famous for the wrong reasons; in other words, that she is loved wrongly and maybe too widely. I want her to be loved only the way I love her: as the author of a few specific pieces of writing.
I’m not alone in this feeling. My kid texted me the day Didion died: “I loved her but Twitter today is going to be unbearable.”
