The singing talent show, American Idol, has become a New Year regular, along with after-holiday sales and Christmas cookie pudge. The auditions, featuring talented singers, mediocre performers, and the dreadfully unmusical, dominate FOX programming for the whole month of January. Who hasn't giggled a little, when she caught a glimpse of a stinker performance in a commercial? It's hard to not shake your head when a particularly pitiful audition gets replayed on the news. Doesn't the performer get it that she was comically bad?

The American Idol 2005 try-outs made an impression on me this year, thanks to a dweeby duo named Adam and Dirk. They auditioned in St. Louis, where cameras followed these instant buddies around, capturing every painful moment of their audition experiences. When Dirk shared that he didn't want to be the next William Hung, I was gripped with an instantaneous fear. Dirk's confession stoked my subconscious, whose voice, by the way, is as cruel and deliciously evil as host Simon Cowell's.

I have been disturbed by a recurring thought, since I saw Adam and Dirk's auditions on American Idol. It haunts me as I try to write. My fear is that if I make it as a writer, it'll be because I'm so awful. I have dubbed this condition "the William Hung Syndrome." Okay, I've admitted it. I'm afraid of making it as a best-selling, but phenomenally bad, writer.

William Hung is a civil engineering student at UC Berkley. His true love, however, is music. Hung tried out for the American Idol 2004 season, performing the Ricky Martin hit, "She Bangs." He crooned and gyrated in a most awkward manner. After his audition was cut short, he humbly revealed to the judges, "You know, I have no professional training of singing." Alright, that was no surprise—Hung's performance was amusing because it was horrible. What did capture people's attention was the way Hung remained polite, sweet, and sincere in the shadow of Cowell's despicable remarks. Here was the "real deal," folks—he didn't care if he was good or bad. Hung just wanted to try his best.

His genuine charisma of polite enthusiasm catapulted Hung into instant stardom. He has appeared on the Tonight Show and CNN Headline News. He has sung at ball games across America. Hung sang "Rocket Man" with Ellen DeGeneres and his first CD "Inspirations" debuted at #34 on the Billboard Top 200 chart. Unfortunately, Hung's huge public appeal also seemed to be hinged as much on his musical silliness as his sincere heart.

On the outside, suffering from such a syndrome doesn't look so ghastly. Experiencing commercial success, now that's something exciting. Plus, increasing my bank account would be a welcome bonus. It might even ease the pain. Could I face myself, my computer, and continue to write, knowing people gobbled up my work because they found it funny—and it wasn't meant to be humorous? The answer to that question is no. Any creative vibe I had going would evaporate. While being a writer requires perseverance, tenacity, thick skin, and dedication, it also requires you peel away a part of yourself and expose it to the world. If I did that, exposed my tender, pink flesh to a reading audience, and received a popular following because my work was putrid, I think a part of me would die.

Writing is a tough gig. The odds reflect the probability that lots of people will dislike what I write. Maybe my writing will hit a nerve with a crowd, and they will enjoy it. That remains to be seen. However, securing my 15 minutes of fame because I am the darling joke of the week would be worse than having my underwear elastic break as I stand, in a dress, before a large crowd. Such an embarrassment would fade, with time. Being the joke of the week lingers, like foot fungus. It'd pop up at peculiar times, embedded in "where is she now" type articles. I can envision it—chugging cheap chardonnay and railing, "If only I had left it in my drawer, I'd still be writing. Now, go away!"

You may be asking yourselves, "Hey Lisa, is your fear rational? Would it be so bad to have William Hung Syndrome?" Yeah, yeah it really would be that bad. Being invited to do Hollywood Squares with Alf and Carrot Top would suck. Riding the wave of success in water that smelled like Tacoma—I'd be done. I don't care how many books sold due my own case of William Hung Syndrome; I'd want to live in seclusion or possibly shave my head, move to a large metropolis and change my name to Stella.

Rather than wallow in my fear, I am trying to face it head on. We aren't much alike. I'm not as nice as Hung. My smile isn't sweet, and I know I can't dance. Hung's dedicated fan base likes him because he urges everyone to chase after their dreams. Hung's fans admire his courage, his realness. Now, being a writer who has courage, authenticity, and modesty agrees with me. In fact, being a writer and possessing Hung's fortitude is the stuff my hopes are made of. I wouldn't mind to be labeled, "William Hung-esque." No, I wouldn't mind that at all.