You’re So Vain: What Writing a Book Called “Anonymous Narcissists” Taught Me About People

“Brilliant! Now you can be a narcissist and also anonymous!” That was the response from a rather famous artist upon hearing my book title while I ran into him during my Sunday stroll in Malibu. He was driving a bright colored Ferrari last time I saw him, maybe anonymity appealed to him now.

I wasn’t expecting such a reaction, but it perfectly illustrated that there are many definitions of narcissism – some people are even proud to self-identify as such. In my book, these individuals strive to overcome their ego in vain, whereas this artist seemed to revel in it.

Narcissism has become a prevalent topic. Everyone seems to have at least one narcissistic ex, if not several. It raises the question: Have we become a society of narcissists? Is our spiritual journey now centered around self-love rather than altruism, suggesting that we might be collectively veering towards a world where narcissistic values are on the rise?

“Is your book about my story?” asked an acquaintance in a panic after reading a brief synopsis. “What story?” I replied, genuinely surprised, as I couldn’t pinpoint a single paragraph about this person.

I recently watched the TV show Capote vs. The Swans, which coincided with some ‘fake’ friends becoming quite anxious upon hearing about a book titled “Anonymous Narcissists” being published. I also lost some so-called “Swans” during this period.

One “Swan” read a few pages and then proceeded to psychoanalyze me. “My art is my truth, so this must be the real you.” I reminded her that it’s not a memoir and that my life is quite different from what she might imagine. Yet, she persisted in projecting her own frustrations onto me and talked for hours about her own writings, which were based on her life and her stalled manuscript.

When you write a book, some people often react with a mix of anger and envy, thinking, “If they can do it, so can I.” Others suggested changing the title or avoiding the “I” form to prevent readers from associating me with the protagonist. However, I’ve learned to disregard such advice.

I once had a fragile ego, so I protected myself by not sharing my book with those around me. Trusting one’s own taste, as Rick Rubin describes in The Creative Act, took me several years to achieve. As Sartre said, “L’enfer, c’est les autres”—hell is other people. Our ego often suffers because we seek approval from those around us, even if it means not fully expressing ourselves.

Sharing a part of my novel with you is really special as throughout the process, only my sister and a handful of friends have read my manuscript.

I aimed to capture our world with a dose of humor and satire, but above all, I want to entertain. And, luckily, most people understand the irony behind the title and the bigger concept I am trying to explore and they just “get it.” Even by only hearing the title, they understand that what I am planning to expose is a raw, unfiltered version of life. A slice of a very shiny and sexy world.

I hated everyone and I didn’t care. But I thought I should. So, I signed up for Golden Bridge Yoga in Hollywood, hoping Kundalini and meditation would take care of that. Instead, I met even crazier people who were in the exact same place as me. Nowheresville.

I needed some extra enlightenment, so I went out with Adam, a classmate who was nice enough to share his mat with me. Everything about him shouted crazy – his glasses, his body odor, his personal proclamation that he was a ‘spiritual healer.’ But I still went for it, thanks to a Yogi girlfriend who thought we’d make a great match and later tried to rope me into MITT, her self-development pyramid scheme.

We had dinner at Saddlerock Ranch, followed by kisses and his boner on the street while he walked me to my car. Neither of us felt like drinking wine – too acidic for our spiritual beings. The drive to the dessert place ended at the entrance of an unfinished building in Topanga, destined to become a sanctuary for soul-searching Angelenos seeking rejuvenation through Adam’s newfound skills. The gate, secured by a heavy chain and padlock, hinted at the transformative journey awaiting within. Equipped with sturdy Wellington boots, Adam carried me through the muddy terrain to the house.

From the outside, it looked like it would never be finished. However, once inside, the cozy and inviting atmosphere immediately put me at ease. There were lots of giant crystals in his room, plants everywhere, and the walls were round because he believed the architecture of softness would make you a better artist. The art piece on his wall resembled a vagina. I sat on his sofa, admiring him from afar, while he prepared chamomile tea and honey. He looked great with his long hair, and I got dangerously close to boyfriend vibes. I hadn’t been this turned on in a while. The love mantras were finally paying off.

I did a Google deep dive before our date. A supermodel from the 70s once told me you always have to masturbate before a date, not to arrive too hungry.

Once a successful music producer, Adam was now a mentor, teaching people his method. I masturbated in the bathtub to one of his livestreams, maneuvering the shower between my legs, and dropped my phone in the process. I wondered if he was crazy or not. I could hardly hear what he said with the shower on. I was viewer 102 – I always admired people who pretended to have a big audience. Maybe it was just too early for him to be recognized for his genius.

I found his manifesto in his restroom and read some of it while taking a shit in his toilet:

There was no toilet paper, but I figured there were plenty of other copies.

I could live with Adam’s daily affirmations, but not with his dirty talk – a sexual habit that replaced the heavy breathing once we made it to his bedroom. Every corner of his room was covered with little post-its, and instead of the usual crystal reminders, they said things like: “Your divine presence is a gift to the world,” “You are your greatest project,” “The world revolves around you—smile more,” and “Dance a little dance for me.” It was everything I would have hidden in my panic drawer, but here it felt perfectly acceptable to feel like shit and work on yourself.

Needless to say, we didn’t sleep together. I really wanted to not laugh at him, to take him seriously, but I guess I failed. We tried to meet again, but I canceled on him – mostly because he sent me too many eggplant emojis, and then he had to pack for Burning Man and came back with a Burning Man wife, according to Instagram, where I stalked him in one of my sexless moments.

Two weeks later, he posted another video. This time, it made me nauseous. It started with a close-up of their lips in a kiss, and the zoom gave me a headache. The video was called “What is love for me?” I wondered if I should have just listened to his dirty talk, as once again there was no one else I wanted to fuck in this fucking town.

“Love is caring and unconditional, it’s like coming home. It’s being free to be you 100% while learning and growing together. Love is chemistry, a choice, two individuals who become one. It’s focusing on each other and co-creating an abundant, joyous life. It’s intellectual stimulation, chemistry, and sex that’s based on total acceptance. It’s wanting to move forward together, to build and grow, to form a family, and to be there for each other.”

Now, this girl truly looked like she was about to come, spinning in circles and touching her hair and face – she was really going for it. Conversely, I was more over him with every passing second. Maybe they didn’t actually feel anything at all, if he needed so many words to describe it. Like his affirmations, the ones he had adhered to his mirror to remind him of things he never believed. The modern-day poets were all so pathetic. Inspirational quotes disguised as art. It was all so ‘good for you,’ so ‘amazing,’ fantastic, bigger than life itself. I tasted acid in my mouth, and everything turned to dust.

I had to laugh at his words, so over the top. I was ashamed for him, for her, for LA, for victims of spirituality, for the death of art, for the death of truth. Who did he think he was? Russell Brand? Three hundred views. His friends all probably admired her perfect little breasts. Would YouTube take it down? Was this porn? Was this the porn of the future? Did this actually turn them on? There was nothing worse than seeing someone you knew trying to be an Influencer. I felt dizzy, nauseous.

She cheated on him three months later with someone older, richer, and uglier, but with a house on Carbon Beach. Probably real LA love this time. Meanwhile, Adam was likely already working on “the benefits of heartbreak.” And I thought to myself: Maybe I can help him. Maybe – if he was now truly broken – we could really connect.

Truth is, I have been wasting my time, my passion, coming here. And to do what? To smoke, drink, eat, and watch the palm trees? To be alone, to look at my phone, to stagnate, to be scared to be alive. I couldn’t take it anymore. The fuck am I wasting my life away? I was so fucking lazy that I couldn’t even bring my ass out of bed, just lost and tired and fucked up like hell. Too many dinner parties, green smoothies, and bullshit. I had a life which was lost in evenings, yearnings, urgencies, dreams, and time-wasting activities.

I saw myself dancing naked to his new video, crying real tears, scratching my face, and shutting him up. But I never saw him again.

You can order Anonymous Narcissist HERE.