When Runner's World magazine offered me a job right out of college as a staff writer, I found it hard to believe that they wanted to pay me to rub elbows with my heroes-running legends such as Marty Liquori and Bill Rodgers. My office-mate, who was also right out of college and also a running fanatic, used to jokingly say, "It's the famous Jim," and I would reply, "It's the famous Rich."

A year or so later, Rich published a book on running, and inscribed it, "For two young writers, it's only the beginning. Ain't it thrilling?"

Rich went on to achieve a sort of fame, as the publisher of Forbes magazine. I went on to become a writer and editor; as it turns out, much of what I've written over the past 25 years has been about famous people.

When I moved to Florida nine years ago, I thought I'd be trading the urban see-and-be-seen aesthetic for a more low-key way of life. I did, although the celebrity buzz in Naples is just as strong as it is up North, albeit a little different. People tend to be blasé about fame and fortune down here-although the rumor that Steven Spielberg is moving to town refuses to die. And thanks largely to my employer, the Philharmonic Center-which I previously covered for the Naples Daily News-my work in Naples has largely involved writing about celebrities.

One of my first interviews in Naples was with Jerry Lewis, who came here in 1996 with the musical Damn Yankees. Lewis has long had a reputation as an unpredictable, oftentimes difficult, interview subject. When I talked to him seven years ago, he was, at age 70, a new father. The story I wrote discussed the relationship between Lewis and Danielle Sara, his three-year-old daughter. Lewis called me shortly after the paper hit the streets to extend profuse thanks. "One day my daughter will be pleased and honored by this story." He invited me backstage after his performance at the Phil, and treated me like an old friend.

The interview was surprising, as meetings with household-name celebrities sometimes are. Famous people such as Lewis have so much reputation preceding them and have been interviewed so many times that they seldom reveal anything you haven't heard before. One way of getting a good interview in these cases, I have found, is to let the subject talk about what's on his mind rather than what's on your mind. Beneath the image we have of them, most famous people, it turns out, are just regular folks, who enjoy following sports or gardening or collecting cars or watching dog shows on television.

In the mid-1980s, I spent several months chasing down an interview with Muhammad Ali, the former heavyweight boxing champion. Ali, then several years into retirement, was among the most recognizable figures in the world, yet something of an enigma. He hadn't done an interview for a number of years and there were rumors that he wasn't well. One day his attorney called to say that if I could fly out to Las Vegas that weekend, I would "probably" get to talk with him. I booked a flight and the interview happened (it was later published in US magazine). But I understood after just a few minutes why Ali wasn't doing interviews. Although considered by many an American icon, the "Champ," as everyone called him, seemed to have little interest in talking about himself or his boxing career. That was the past, he said; his current passion was handing out Islamic literature, but, even more so, magic. The only time his eyes lit up during our talk was when he demonstrated his magic tricks-making a scarf disappear in his fist. Despite his public persona, Ali was a private, religious man with simple interests.

When you talk to famous people for a while, they stop seeming famous. That's because fame itself isn't so interesting to them. Most famous people, I've found, think of celebrity as one thing before they have it, then find it's something different once they achieve it. Often the adjustments are challenging. For all of the pleasures and advantages of celebrity, there are also responsibilities; it's a bit like having children

Before her show at the Phil a few years ago, singer Toni Tennille, of Captain and Tennille, discussed how her life turned topsy-turvy in 1975 after their debut single Love Will Keep Us Together topped the charts and the duo became a television staple. "Things I had taken for granted I couldn't do anymore," she said. "One of my favorite things was to go shopping, have lunch by myself and read a book. I could no longer do that. I always envied the group Kiss because they could take off the make-up and be themselves again."

But fame, for the most part, is relative. People can be famous in one world, unknown in another. I remember when artist Robert Rauschenberg, who lives on Captiva Island, came to Naples for his Winter Work exhibition at the Phil several years ago. The show generated a great deal of anticipation and press; when Rauschenberg, one of the most important post-war American artists, arrived at the reception, he was mobbed as if he were a rock star. Yet if he were to go shopping in a Publix or an Albertson's, the artist probably would not be recognized.

Some who achieve fame in the larger world seem pleased to go back to a smaller, less demanding sort of fame, as Captain and Tennille have done, while others can become defensive when the shine of fame fades. Twenty-two years after Chubby Checker topped the charts with his dance phenomenon The Twist, I interviewed him between shows at a small club in Maryland. He mostly wanted to talk about The Twist, which he called "probably the most important song for the music industry in this entire century. The Twist wasn't just a song. It became the vehicle for every record that was released from the time it came out until the present. We didn't do The Twist, we did a revolution that is still happening," he said.

It was around this same time that a crew from Columbia Pictures came to Ocean City, Md., to film a movie called Violets Are Blue. Kevin Kline starred as editor of the town's newspaper, the Maryland Coast Dispatch-the job I held in real life. To research his role, Kline stopped by the office several times to observe the workings of a small-town newspaper.

At first, it was distracting. Women from the art department lined up at the ladies room for make-up checks. One employee retrieved the actor's cigarette butt from the ashtray on my desk, enclosed it in plastic and kept it above her desk (for two years).

But then, after a while, the staff seemed to take him for granted, and we put him to work proofing pages. Fame has its parameters.

The celebrities I've written about have come from many different worlds and include Peter Jennings, Tom Clancy, Tammy Wynette, Ziggy Marley, Sugar Ray Leonard, Carol Burnett, Mike Ditka, Art Buchwald, Charlie Daniels, Ann Landers and many others.

Each story was a little different and yet, looking back, there seems to be a thread connecting them. When we daydream about fame as children, the notion of being famous often translates to being important. But the best-adjusted celebrities come to see fame as opportunity, a doorway to better things. They talk about it with humility and gratitude, not bluster. Many famous people say that their greatest satisfaction comes from working-nurturing and evolving the talents that made them famous in the first place.

Eight years ago, I interviewed the late Robert Ludlum in his Gulf-front Naples condominium. Ludlum had written 19 best-selling suspense thrillers then, with sales topping 200 million copies, yet he still rose early each morning to write in longhand on yellow legal pads. (Although his books were packed with the latest spy technology, Ludlum hadn't mastered the personal computer; he said he couldn't even get his VCR clock to stop flashing "12:00.") Ludlum was a gracious host, who talked about his love of writing, his previous career as an actor, his family, politics (he corresponded with President Clinton, a fan whose letters were framed above the author's desk) and many other topics. Our conversation lasted for a couple of hours.

At the end, he inscribed his latest book The Apocalypse Watch, "Thanks for a delightful 'interview.'" The word interview was in quotes.

After 25 years of interviewing celebrities, that's sort of how I see the whole idea of being famous: in quotes.