When celebrities gripe about paparazzi, the notion typically rings false. But I genuinely feel for Michelle Williams following her New York Times interview, which is a heartfelt look at a life of unwanted tabloid objectification. Sure, Williams has been in the public eye since “Dawson’s Creek.” But she matured into a non-tabloid, indie actress. Then she fell for Heath Ledger on the set of “Brokeback Mountain,” a paragon, it should be noted, of anti-mainstream movie-making.

With Ledger dead, Williams could have become Courtney Love. She is reminiscent instead of Jackie Kennedy, another woman forever attached to the tragically deceased, who is caught in a futile place where anonymity is not an option. The Times story never mentions moving but if I were Williams, I’d consider a quiet sojourn in Paris.

Williams speaks affectingly, too, of the strain a toddler exacts on your creativity, especially in terms of your dream life. I used to think dream-talk was cheesy until my own head-shrinker encouraged me to engage my unconscious. The results can be revelatory, a rich yet free source to mine for material. And like Williams, I often feel that well has dried up for me too.

I so wish my life looked like Naomi Watts’s portrayal of a self-indulgent shopaholic, left, one of nine characters she inhabits for the Sunday Magazine. Alas, I more often resemble the character at right, Naomi the klutzy nincompoop. Except she keeps her cool, and I always want to cry over spilt milk. For whatever reason, spilt milk seems to signal a serious loss of control of the homefront — and it’s not because grass-fed organic is so insanely expensive.