People that want to be in the tabloids will get into the

In the marketplaces of glitter and rumor, where lamps burn hot and the moths mistake heat for heaven, a clear voice speaks: “People that want to be in the tabloids will get into the tabloids. I just stay home and don’t go out much. My personality is not an introvert, but that’s how I am as far as going out to parties. I just stay in my house and hang out with friends.” Hear the craft in this confession: it separates the stage from the soul, public light from private warmth. The speaker does not despise attention; she refuses captivity to it. She honors the work, yet keeps her name from being auctioned in the bazaar.

The saying begins with agency: “People that want to be in the tabloids will get into the tabloids.” Fame, in this telling, is not a storm that seizes the innocent; it is a current one can choose to swim or step away from. Doors to spectacle are always ajar—late-night circuits, visible tables, rooms built for being seen. But another door also stands open: the one that leads to the kitchen, the worn sofa, the unfilmed laughter of friends. Choosing that door is not shyness; it is strategy.

“I just stay home and don’t go out much.” Note the simplicity—no grand theory, only a rule kept. The ancients would call this a boundary rite: you guard the hearth by tending it. You may be bright as brass onstage and yet choose the soft clay of ordinary life afterward. The confession “not an introvert” matters; it rejects the false choice that only the timid decline parties. One may be joyful, sociable, full of light—and still decline the circuits where identity is reduced to a headline and a flash.

Consider a story to weigh the wisdom. Emily Dickinson lived within a narrow geography—a house, a garden, a circle of kin—and from that small country she wrote a world. Invitations came; she answered with bread, letters, and poems in envelopes. Many mistook restraint for absence; posterity learned it was concentration. She did not deny the public; she distilled herself for it. Her choice of cloister did not shrink her art; it clarified it. So too the one who says, “I stay in my house and hang out with friends”: the smaller room protects the larger gift.

There is humor hidden in the line about parties—“that’s how I am as far as going out.” It is a gentle shrug, a reminder that not every refusal is a manifesto. The soul knows its limits. Some nights, music feeds the work; other nights, silence does. To keep covenant with your calling, you must learn the difference. This is not contempt for the city; it is fidelity to the inner compass that points you home when the lights grow carnivorous.

The quote also carries mercy: it does not scold those who choose the bright road. “Their road is theirs,” the tone implies, “and I will not judge it.” In an age that makes sermons from strangers’ choices, such restraint is rare courage. Let others narrate their personalities in the language they choose; keep your own in the grammar of peace. A culture that honors varied thresholds—some open, some gently shut—becomes kinder to everyone who must cross and re-cross them.

Take the lesson and make it walk. Set a simple rule for your evenings: one night for craft, one for kin, one for rest; parties only when they serve the person you are becoming. Keep a short list of friends whose company is medicine, and meet them at your house or theirs, where talk is unpriced. Decide in advance what you will not trade for a mention—sleep, dignity, or the unhurried joy of staying home. And when others choose the glare of the tabloids, bless them without envy or lecture. In this way you will stand in daylight without being devoured by it, and your work will carry the quiet strength of a life rightly guarded.