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It’s been a very parasocial week. I watched John Green explain how he tries not to share details about his relationship with his wife, because once he talks about it publicly, it’s not theirs anymore. I read Alison Roman’s BetterHelp spon about the grind of performing herself. And I spent a lot of time reading through your thousands of responses to my subscriber survey.
You wrote things like, “I have been a subscriber for many years and—as such—have a deeply parasocial relationship with you!” And, “my longest parasocial friendship-ha!” It was so interesting to see you call out this dynamic directly, even though I am not surprised that we all know what’s going on here.
The term “parasocial” is now common parlance. We have entered an advanced stage of our collective shift from a media economy of publications to one of individuals. The currency is no longer just the work itself, it’s the work plus the perceived relationship. That feeling of connection.
Almost a decade ago, I wrote about the rise of the personal brand. Now it’s quaint that a writer would simply have to be savvy about how they discuss their work. Any creative person who hopes to build an audience is under pressure to share not just their work but the intimate details of their life—to cultivate a relationship that feels real. What they eat (the Grub Street diet), where they live (the Apartment Therapy home tour), what it feels like to FaceTime with them (the front-facing-camera TikToks and reels). This goes beyond branding. No one is asking to see Nabisco’s desk layout or a photo of Apple's children.
And so a successful writer is not just a writer, they’re a microcelebrity. There is no path but the parasocial, unless you are independently wealthy or have already ascended to the very highest tiers of acclaim. (And even then…)
Researchers studying the “new mass media” documented parasocial relationships as early as the 1950s, and for a long time the term applied mainly to movie-star types. Famous people have long had to walk the tightrope of self-revelation and self-protection. When I prepare to interview a celebrity, I read dozens of interviews they’ve already given and note the same six stories they always tell. I respect this tactic—it’s not lazy, it’s self-protective. These celebrities have decided to carve out a piece of themselves to share for promotional purposes, and draw a boundary around it. It’s my role as interviewer to push the boundary a bit, while also acknowledging that it’s within their right to decline to tell me more. Readers will understand a celebrity’s decision to hold some things back.
With microcelebrities, it’s more complicated. In a 2021 study of parasocial dynamics with livestreamers on Twitch, researchers defined these relationships as “one-and-a-half sided,” characterized by accessibility and the potential for reciprocal communication. People don’t really expect to get more, more, more from distant A-listers. But writers and podcasters and food influencers and vloggers? Part of their appeal is that they’re normal people. They don’t feel like celebrities because they aren’t. They are more like a friend you don’t have to feel bad about not calling.
In my own career, this dynamic was most palpable with Call Your Girlfriend, probably because audio is such an intimate medium. As the parasocial aspect of podcasting revealed itself, Aminatou and I made subtle shifts toward self-protection. We stopped talking about our personal lives so much, and kept the focus on our opinions about news and culture. We did eventually discuss some truly intimate details of our friendship, but we did so in a book—which meant we had time to really think about what we were making public and why. And we got paid for it. And there were some aspects of even that story that we opted not to share. We also had the advantage of gut-checking with each other, of making sure we always knew the cost-benefit analysis.
In the parasocial economy, personal details are currency. This is what John Green was saying in that video about his marriage: There is always a cost to revealing yourself, so you better be sure about what you’re getting in the exchange. Is it book sales? Is it audience loyalty? Is this actually part of your creative practice? Trying to figure out how to share yourself on your terms is, indeed, exhausting. It’s also a privilege and a hallmark of success. It means you have cash to spend.
I thought about all of these things before I published that 10-part series about pregnancy and impending parenthood, an unusually revealing piece of writing for me. I felt pulled to write it, and I was pretty sure I also wanted to share it. But I didn’t want any strangers’ opinions about this most intimate of life choices, so publishing while I was away from my inbox was a good choice. I also knew I could publish this and not continue to write so personally. I set the terms.
But whew, that series has stoked a desire for more, more, more of me. It was so apparent in the survey responses, which not only copped to feeling parasocial but requested updates and details and, in some cases, baby photos. I enjoyed a steady stream of Instagram follow requests while I was on leave, and assumed that it was mostly people hoping for a glimpse of the child. Never gonna happen!!! Because doing so would implicate this barely-a-person in my work.
Yes, deciding which personal details to share is part of my work. One of the professional skills I’ve had to develop. Spellcheck keeps nudging me to correct parasocial to “paradoxical.” Ah, the subtle poetry of machines. Yes, it’s a paradox. I love writing because, in part, it helps me connect my personal experiences to the larger world and the many strangers in it. That’s a social act. But it’s not an actual two-way relationship. It’s a two-way mirror. Readers can see me, but I can’t see you as individuals. I know you’re all there behind the glass—I write to you every week!—but ultimately I’m just looking at myself.
What do I want from you on the other side? I want you to know that I’ve really thought about how much I share and why. I want you to operate kind of like I do when I interview celebrities—it’s ok to react and ask questions, and sometimes to ask for more, but to do so with respect for the boundaries. I want you to know that I am honored by your connection to my work, but I want you to understand that it’s a connection with the work—which is mine, but not me. A subtle difference.
You are a highly sophisticated readership. “I appreciate your authenticity but also your ability to avoid the parasocial bits that can come with your kind of job,” one of you wrote, “AND yet. I reread 'I Shock Myself' at least ten times---and want to take care to view you as a writer and not a friend. Thanks for threading that needle, and letting me thread that needle.” This brought tears to my eyes. We both understand what’s going on here!!
Then I wondered: If I feel so tenderly toward all of you, is it really parasocial at all? Is it just modern-social? Not a two-sided mirror, but a looking-glass effect where we can actually see each other, just in a warped kind of way, and sometimes interact? Indeed, it’s impossible to love a piece of art without feeling some kinship with the artist. It’s impossible to write professionally without thinking about the reader. We're here for each other.
* A practical and related update * I’ll have more to share about the reader survey results soon. Later this week, those of you who completed the survey will receive a special bonus edition of the newsletter! Surprising even myself, a wrote an epilogue to the 10-part pregnancy series. (If you are worried this is going to turn into a parenting newsletter, please don’t. This cordoned-off special edition is going to be all I have to say on the subject for quite some time.) This bonus edition will go out to everyone who answered the survey, and to paying members. It’s too late to take the survey, but you can join the members-only list by Tuesday and still receive the bonus edition. Personal details are currency, and these are going for the bargain-basement price of $15/year.
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