Editor’s note: Sybil Adelman Sage, one of the first women to break into television writing, is currently working on a fictitious memoir titled Diary of an Overachiever: Mensa Model Finishes First in NYC Marathon After Solving Economic Problems and Proposing Health Plan Praised by Democrats and Republicans Alike.

Fame, I discovered at an early age, requires being cordial to strangers and tipping at least 20%, just two reasons I carved out a life to insure being a nobody, a status that’s highly underrated. A nobody isn’t asked to emcee a charity event or write blurbs for books, is less likely to attract stalkers and can blow off religious zealots in airports and Greenpeace workers on street corners. Equally important, a nobody can abuse food or drugs without getting media attention and has no worries that family secrets will be spilled by a former nanny writing a gossipy memoir.  

I was first officially recognized as a nobody when a friend’s chauffeur stopped in front of a New York theater to drop me off. Someone rushed over to check out who was in the limo, immediately dismissing me with a disappointed wave and telling a companion, "It’s nobody." That was a memorable moment, confirming I was free to go out in public with no makeup, something I value far more than being able to snag a table at Rao’s.

An important step toward insuring obscurity is being born into a family where you’re not expected to perform onstage with all your siblings before you’ve learned long division. I had an added advantage in that none of my dead ancestors was named "Paris," so I wasn’t saddled with a name that invariably leads to becoming famous. My first job was in Marketing Research, a field populated with unknowns, where even the hottest of the coder-tabulators can freely walk around without being chased by admirers. In fact, not one person in the lobby of the Empire State Building was willing to stop and help me complete a survey by answering questions like, "Which bathing cap would you be more likely to buy?"      

After moving to Los Angeles and getting involved with show business, my jobs – taking dictation from a studio vice president or answering phones for the manager of the Marquis Chimps – did not put me in or near the spotlight. It wasn’t until I started working as a secretary to prominent show-business personalities and later as a scriptwriter that I experienced fame, witnessing embarrassing adulation, shameless staring, whispering and requests for autographs. There was no way to avoid being exposed to secondhand fame.

During a brief period when we were both sporting the same frizzy, Harpo Marx-like curls, I was mistaken for Barbra Streisand, accosted by her fans and, more surprisingly, greeted by her friends. "How are you, Barbra?" I was asked, clutched to the chest of a stranger while doing lunch (showbiz people "do" everything) at the Paramount commissary. 

"Fine," I answered, struggling to get free, "but I’m not Barbra."

Several years later, I became a television writer and forgot my resolve, agreeing to being interviewed for an article that would appear in TV Guide. Obscene phone calls and letters from prisoners alerted me that I had to be more discrete. Carelessness could put me at risk of losing my nobodyness. To avoid gaining prominence, I signed with agents who promised "a five-year plan," code for that’s how long they take to return a phone call.