Being your own best art friend

And how exhausting that is

Hi there, I’m Phoebe — writer and founder of Rhetorica. You’re receiving this newsletter because you either signed up or you’re a friend who I’ve been spamming for years. If you’re enjoying it, please forward it to someone. If you’re the lucky recipient of a forward, sign up for the real thing here.

Of course I have an opinion on Bad Art Friend.

Are you dying to hear it despite being old news? It’s actually in my last newsletter when I linked to similar Cat Person drama, saying that all writers are vampires (AWAV). This edict still applies whether you’re a needy-passive-aggressive narcissist or a shitty-passive-aggressive narcissist. All are welcome!

Most internet hot takes agree there are no winners in The B.A.F. Saga (p.s., are any great artists known to be good friends?) so I’ll just add that the story completely validated my lifelong reluctance to be part of any community that calls itself a community.

You see, I am a Dawn Dorland at heart and would be so embarrassed for anyone to find out, so I hide my Dawn-ness by acting like Sonya Larson on sub-group chats. This gives me a guilty emotional hangover and forces me to withdraw socially (how Dawn Dorland of me to say that) until the fog lifts and I am ready to talk shit again, thus recreating the toxic cycle.

So I’ve learned (finally, in my 40s) to just dissociate. Part of that is not joining the mom groups, the writer’s workshops, the drinks after work, etc. But like a true Dawn D., I must connect and create, so I write this niche-free newsletter to a hundred or so people and hope that each of you quickly forgets anything I’ve ever said.

What’s a community supposed to be, anyway?

Someone I follow on Instagram posted a quote (I can’t find it now) about how we are the only society that expects individuals to believe in themselves. The argument is that individuals should only be responsible for their doing, and a community should be there to believe in and support them, because it’s impossible for one person to “self-regenerate.” As someone on their 487th failed regeneration, I feel this.

The havoc that Dawn Dorland wreaked on Sonya Larson after feeling betrayed by her and The Chubby Chimpanzees or whatever is mostly indefensible, but I can understand the fury behind it. I can also blame capitalism and Facebook (my favorite thing to do) because if it weren’t for the fallacy of American individualism and self-reliance, people like Dawn wouldn’t be so desperate for community, connection and validation, and wouldn’t try to use Facebook to find it. And people within communities like hers wouldn’t feel the need to judge their wackiest and most vulnerable so they can differentiate and feel good about themselves as individuals.

If I ever start a writers’ community (bitchImight) I think rule number one would be that you don’t have to like everyone’s work but you have to support it. Participation trophies only. Rule number two will be you’re not allowed to harass people when they don’t congratulate you for donating your organs.

Back to my dissociation routine

I’m scrolling:

Memes from a self-loathing mid-century modern furniture dealer in the Pacific Northwest (VERY NICHE) and this maximalist cake-maker.

I’m listening to:

Every Damn Thing, where Phil Green and Jake MacLachlan rank everything in the world. I recently joined them for an episode about Teddy Roosevelt and might go back to rank “nostalgia.”

ASMR videos from this angel-person in Toronto and her Angelina Jolie-ish counterpart in Los Angeles.

I’m reading (or have recently read):

Anne Kadet’s very New York newsletter. She interviews pigeons and photodocs interesting heaps of trash!

Song of Achilles. Same author as Circe, same addictive Greek mythology fan fiction.

Misfits by Michaela Coel (of I May Destroy You fame.)

The Body Keeps the Score - basically you can treat trauma with yoga.

Fair Play - teaches hetero couples how to equitably divide labor.

How to Do Nothing - a very bloated academic way of saying “get off social media and find a hobby.”

Untamed by Glennon Doyle. This is one of those books where on nearly every page I was like, “Yes, totally.” And now I can’t tell you one thing I learned or remember from this book.