Issue 9: The Parasocial Problem

Thank your local influencer

The Parasocial Problem 

Disclaimer: I like to think of myself as the Joan Didion of re-watching SATC 3 times a year. That said, there are definitely too many references in this month’s issue that are not particularly relevant. Just my conduit of choice. There are enough for this disclaimer, just in case you somehow haven’t watched one of humanity’s greatest works of art. But I won’t apologize for them! No, I will: I’m so sorry.

Hello, my digital nearest and dearest!

First things first, thank you to everyone who wrote such kind messages about the last issue. It really means the world and I’ll be rereading them for the rest of my days.

In an attempt to smooth brain my grief away, I’ve put a lot of time into my social media addiction this year (hold for applause). But my baser instinct to escape into the internet has been thwarted by the a-personality of it all. The bubbles of homogeneity. Everyone and their vibe vignettes, cleverly narrating everything like a New York Star column. The obsessive witnessing and consumption of one another has given me perennial digital deja vu. 

I should know better! It is unwise to heavily scroll social media in the best of times, let alone the worst. And yet, what could be stronger than the desire for escapism?

I won’t elaborate further on why such digital cohesion is less than desirable. Many smarter people have already done that. (Were you too personally victimized by Emily Sundberg’s newsletter “The machine in the garden”?) But, at the risk of embodying Old Man Yelling At Cloud or Lexi Featherston (pick your poison), I can’t help but yearn for the social media of yore. The one that implied a value of connection and democratization of culture. The home of sepia tone filters and tweeting song lyrics. 

As of late, Instagram, Twitter, and the like seem to be nothing more than proof of the desire to be narcotized by content. The nature of these algorithms leads to fragmented identities, flattening, and unauthorized narratives. Now, we are left with nothing but a mall that asks us to propagandize our own humanity for entry.

This is one of those references I referred to up top. Please click for context if needed and again, so sorry.

There’s a paradox of being seen and not truly engaging, performing rather than LiViNg AuThEnTiCaLLy. It seems our relationship with our own identity feels more like a parasocial one: detached, one-sided, and mediated through the lens of how we want to be perceived, rather than our desires.

Not to get even further ahead of myself here, but in this iteration of the internet, I couldn’t help but wonder, is consumption the only form of self-expression under capitalism? Can a mimetic life ever be fulfilling? Big is moving to Paris.

Maybe the answer to these questions is simply that I’m not built for platforms that confront you with yourself through the projections of aspiration. But for once in the history of the universe, it’s not just about me! This phenomenon feels bigger than any one person, despite said person’s ironclad commitment to naval gazing. 

I think the expanded definition—and application—of parasociality is to blame. What once described our relationships with distant celebrities now applies to the people we know, tangentially or otherwise, through the fragmented relationship we develop with their internet breadcrumbs — and the inevitable feast we make of them.

Engaging in the parasocial is more convenient than creating or fostering an actual connection — but that gaze is always defined by the viewer, not the person being viewed. Zadie Smith said it better: “Empathy and voyeurism are kind of two sides of the same thing. You have to like looking and then once you finished looking, you have to make an effort to understand.”

Scrolling through each other's content offers the illusion of intimacy—a soothing, passive connection without the effort of active interaction. And if that’s how most of us relate to others online, maybe it’s no surprise that we treat ourselves the same way. 

I still don’t know if social media has given me more than it’s taken, but here I am, over 10 years into a URL life and 11 months into IRL grief and all I have to show for it are my parasocial relationships. 

What to do with my Digital One Ring(s)? (I’ve never read nor seen LOTR.) (Can someone tell me which hobbit is the Miranda of the shire?) Sure, grips need to be gotten, but we are all being tormented by that one woman on the internet we’ve never met! Haunted by that friend of a friend of a friend who unfollowed you! Possessed by a micro-influencer's divorce! You cannot tell me otherwise! 

I can’t say if there are any innocent ways left to use social media. By design, their algorithms only reward the type of disclosure that invites parasociality no matter who you are or how many followers you have. The goal is to stake a claim in others’ cognitive real estate. But a feed of the people and subjects algorithmically determined to validate or anger you does not a life make! 

Am I wrong? Or, perhaps I am right in a new and unusual way.

Until I can come to a conclusion that isn’t aggregated from Substack opinions, I’ll be reading about our universal preoccupation with others’ perceptions. Books for and against your right to reply. 

Below are some of my favorites so far: these are the books that take the extremes of the parasocial and mine them for fodder. Most hauntingly, some no longer feel so extreme or far-fetched. Some are contemporary, some are of another era: all delve into this new anthropological frontier.