Apparently self-obsession is the secret sauce to succeeding as a writer these days
I subscribe to some creator bros, a.k.a. online writers who happen to be male (and mostly white). The creator bros are all about storytelling. While the debate between AI bros and naysayers mostly bores me, I am occasionally intrigued when the discussion ventures into what it means to be human.
Lately, a lot of that discussion has been centred on the future of writing as a profession and an art in the age of AI. Which, as you can imagine, has involved lots of shouting about why AI will never truly replace writers and our jobs are therefore safe, don’t you worry.
The problem, though, is that the “what makes us human” discussion seems to me to encourage a kind of self-obsession, if not outright narcissism. And – as most of us will have experienced in some small way with the dopamine hints generated by social media likes – that focus on the self breeds insecurity, creating what really is a toxic cycle.
Even as AI’s very nature means it creates average content (literally average) that is general and depersonalised, creators including writers are leaning deep into individualism. Some buzzwords and catchphrases you may have encountered: “authenticity”, “you do you” and “unashamedly”.
More and more, online writing – especially successful online writing – is self-focused. This is what I think: listen to me. This is what I did: learn from me. This is who I am: love me or hate me.
Apparently I’m the protagonist
According to Max Read, in order to succeed as an online writer
“You have to be pretty comfortable having a strong voice, offering relatively strong opinions, and just generally being the ‘main character’ in your writing.”
He’s not wrong. My blog is like a memoir in bite-size chunks. I am the main character in everything I write. After all, this is the very conceit of blogging, which has its roots in live journaling.
I am the main character in all my blog posts because I’m not enough of an expert in anything to write it more objectively. If I were, I’d be publishing in mainstream media or industry magazines. I am the main character because I’d rather my writing were a memoir than a giant collection of op-eds on issues I have no authority to write about.
Authority. Expertise. Online writing has democratised the craft of writing. I can be an authority and an expert on anything, because I’m the authority and expert on my perspective on everything. I don’t need actual knowledge to have an interesting perspective.
Though, due to the blind spots that come with being human, I’d argue that other people, like my husband and family, might be more of an expert on me than I am. But certainly no-one has more authority to write about who I am and how I see the world than I do.
It’s this which creator bro Jay Acunzo tells me is my “unfair advantage”:
“They care because it’s you … How you see the world, coming through in the form of deeper insights and a more personal feel, is the one thing nobody else can access.”
Me being the protagonist is the value add
The “unfair advantage” works because increasingly readers want to connect with individuals, not brands or entities. As another storytelling bro Joe Lazauskas says:
“When we love a writer, we don’t just love them for their ability to string words together in a beautiful and logical order or summarize information. We love them for their stories, their perspective, their insight that shines through.”
He cites award-winning short story author Ted Chiang:
“What you create doesn’t have to be utterly original or unlike any prior piece of art in human history to be valuable; the fact that you’re the one who is saying it, the fact that it derives from your unique life experience and arrives at a particular slice of whoever is seeing your work, is what makes it new.”
We have arrived at the pinnacle of post-modernism. My truth, our individual truths, are non-negatable. They’re above denial because they’re ours. They’re valuable because they’re ours.
And that, my friends, is the secret sauce for online writing.
Why this makes me uncomfortable
Honestly I feel uncomfortable about this. Since social media took over our devices (and our brains and our reality) around 2010, the quantification of likes and followers has reinforced the illusion that we are the main character. Social media has made it easy for us to share about ourselves and our lives – and it’s encouraged us to do it.
People liking our pithy tweets makes us feel like we’re a witty, worthy human making an important contribution to social dialogue.
People telling us how hot we are in that selfie encourages us to turns ourselves into models.
People telling us how seen they felt when they read that thing encourages us to reveal more.
Yet it feels increasingly fraught to be so open, so vulnerable. There are at least a few reasons for this. One is technological, one social and one personal.
- Nothing on the internet can truly be deleted. You can use the Wayback Machine to access articles that were previously public on my blog and are now private. And if I edit any of my old articles, you can go back and read the original version with all the typos and immaturity I’d be ashamed of.
- Political correctness and cancel culture makes me think really hard about how honest I can be. The truth is I’m afraid to provide anyone with evidence that I think the wrong way. I don’t want to be defined as a bigot based on a misjudged phrase – or, for that matter, an honestly held but dissenting opinion.
- Getting married has changed how I approach my writing. Marriage means nothing is just about me anymore, and I’m not the only one impacted by what I write about myself. Perhaps that was always true, but it’s certainly more apparent now that I have a husband.
When the protagonist becomes the villain
Regarding the technological and societal reasons for my discomfort, there’s a fine line between being a protagonist and an antagonist as an online writer. This terrifies me a little. I don’t need to be liked by everyone, but it feels unfair that sharing my perspective and insights in any public forum means I am suddenly fair game for judgments on my character.
This is what being a public figure entails, and we’re living in an age where simply existing on social media makes you a public figure. People can and do pore over a retweet, or the details of something you said or did 10, 20 years ago and condemn you for it.
To be a writer now is more than ever before about being judged for who you are, not just the calibre or values behind your works. The outrage over J.K. Rowling demonstrates not just the higher risk environment we writers now operate in. It also shows how writers mean more to their readers than the particular things they wrote.
Here’s how it goes:
- We read something that speaks to our hearts (that’s what good writing does)
- As a result, we feel we’ve found a kindred spirit in the author (that connection seems like a beautiful thing to me)
- And then they say or do something that goes against our values so we feel betrayed (this is what I struggle to accept)
I want to be able to connect with you on some things even if we are polar opposites on others. Is that wishful thinking? Sadly, I don’t know how possible that is, anymore.
Getting the balance right: how much me is too much me?
In terms of how marriage has made online writing more fraught for me, my challenge is in understanding how what I write might impact my husband. What I write can affect him even if I’m not writing about him. He has a stake in who I am and how I present myself and I’m still learning how to navigate that.
I have often wanted to write about the beautiful and the difficult things we’ve been through together. I’ve written a few things around our COVID-19 wedding. But what seems unconfidential to me may well be private for him.
Also, in writing about our relationship, I’d be sharing from my point of view (as I’ve said, apparently this is what online writing is all about). But my prudent husband does not have much of an online presence, and wouldn’t get to provide his side of the story without coming online to do so.
Mary Harrington has set some guiding principles about which areas of her personal life are a no-go as a writer. They’re far stricter than what I’ve observed thus far and it’s encouraged me to think about setting my own guidelines.
In the same article, she writes eloquently about self-disclosure in the digital age and the need for digital modesty. She’s quite right in pointing to the not-sexual-yet-essentially-pornographic nature of some of the intimacies revealed by TikTok creators and online writers.
To be a writer is to reveal something of myself, to give something of myself to my reader. To be the main character, as we’ve said. But how do I self-disclose in a spirit of generosity and humility and not in either a self-absorbed or “pornographic” way?
I suspect there is no easy or single answer to this question. Perhaps the question itself is the lens through which I should write, constantly reminding myself that while I may be the protagonist, I want to be reader-centred. My desire is to be both generous, humble and wise in sharing my stories, perspective and insights with you.
Header image: Daryn Stumbaugh.
