Books to Make You Hurl Your Phone Into a River

“Update: I realized far too late that my tagline should have always been 'Books to Make You Thoreau Your Phone into a River.' Missed opportunity there.”

I'm very anti-phone lately. I sort of always have been, in relation to the visibility aspect of all this. My blog is comfortable to me, a form of expression rather than a plea for eyes.

I think we're definitely seeing the consequences of exhaustion and disconnection spurred by technology overall, and I think many people (creatives especially) long to pull a Thoreau and disappear into the woods, if possible, but know the financial ecosystem requires you to essentially pimp your work out online as frequently as possible.

I have far, far too many titles I want to mention here, so will restrict myself to five subtopics to start. I could branch out enormously (and mind map, but that gets dangerous.)

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But I've been reading about digital minimalism for years and years. In 2019, I absolutely ghosted everyone and went on a huge invisibility kick.

The Pain of Being Visible

In my modern career, cultivating a parasocial relationship with my readers is the price of viability—of getting to do what I love and am passionate about. So I'll do it, sure. I'm still learning exactly how to, because up until now, I've been able to coast on only using my blog authority.

Mulling over this has been a theme for the last few years, but especially over the past few weeks or days; since I'm officially done with my book revision, the growth-centered side of my brain has kicked on. I know all the psychology of what to do to make people invested in your journey. I just can't really bring myself to focus on the memememe element enough. Clickbait is not inherently comfortable to me.

Camouflage is one of those words I always misspell, and that's my own damn fault! Je suis desolée.

And in terms of boundaries, I'll talk about themes and thoughts, but never actually show real vulnerability. I don't drag other people into my blog or presentation; I keep my relationships and social life offline unless it's explicitly in a context the other person is okay with. Nobody else has consented to share in the same way I do, and sharing thoughts or reflections does feel different from sharing my life.

But I'll reference others in passing, sure. Usually in the vein of "I was having a conversation with someone and we were chatting about—" The few opportunities I've had to write personal essays on the Internet, I ultimately felt like the editor or publication changed it to the extent that it didn't feel accurate to me at all—and on those few occasions, it hasn't been worth the exposure.

A personal example: I know, logically, the way to get more eyes on WLS is to put my face in front of that damn camera. I've waded into stretching that creative muscle via voice notes (because ideally the vocal coding will make someone feel "closer" to my work), but somehow looking at my face—the way my mouth moves when I talk, the weird flatness of the light, the awkwardness of mannerisms—just makes it so uncomfortable. Perhaps voiceovers are the way to go? And then there's the gawky awkwardness of being visibly trying to grow at all. I'm trying though!

Texting & Translation

I approach a lot of life through this survivalist, evolutionary lens, which always surprises people who assume my romanticism keeps me from holding both in balance. But the two veils coexist, for me. Analysis is almost a form of distancing, which works.

Recently, I've been on a kick about translation and the impossibility of it. From foreign languages to English, yeah, but also in English to English. Your very difficulty getting yourself across to another person.

I’m sick of texting, largely because—even as someone good with words—there’s so much misinterpretation. One of the things I love most about my book and how it portrays emotion is how much tension lives in the unspoken: the body language, the stillness, the shifts. We lose all of that the moment we reach for our phones. So much of what we know and assume about others lives in the unsaid. And what happens when you become more of an idea to someone than reality, or vice versa?

A personal example: There’s someone I used to be close to, and I still reach out on occasion when they cross my mind. But, because of the silence on the other end and the way we diverged, it feels like there's a lot more pressure to "get my words right" whenever I do. I don't need a response, nor is it a test; it just feels right to send it anyway. But automatically, pressing send—no matter the content—makes me feel as though I've gotten them wrong. Like there is no way to walk back the intensity of any contact at all.

So that makes me think about how we best dilute ourselves and which versions of ourselves we convey to others (especially from afar), and how texting is so shitty for making any interaction feel light enough. We are so wired to know each other in person, and you can always read far too much into absolutely anything.

Hijacking Our Dopamine <3

Of course, our addiction systems get screwed by phones and the Internet. There's a conversation within psychiatry and psychology about whether or not behavioral addictions can actually be classified as addictions (see: The Urge), which is why neurotransmitters can be so fascinating. The Molecule of More was one of my favorite books of last year, and it talks a lot about what becomes compelling to you and how that's ultimately not as satisfying as the grounded joy of our here-and-now processing systems (which tend to be sparked by nature, awe, depth of conversation, etc,. All the stuff that "really matters.")

Embodiment, Movement, and Digital Spaces

This is a whole new rabbit hole that I've been following lately—and perhaps you've been able to tell thanks to my fixation on endurance, fatigue, and physical movement but essentially, we mistakenly believe that action follows thought but actually: thought follows action, which is why we have habits and muscle memory and unconscious instincts that can sabotage us. And all the studies point to embodiment (specifically in a developmental sense) is crucial to how we understand others. There's a reason why endorphins are in H&N processing, and why those are released when we move.

For example, one of my favorite studies or fun facts is that (by a slim margin) getting Botox actually makes you less able to empathize with people, because part of how it happens is that we make tiny micro-expressions when listening to someone recount their emotions, etc,. And that physical movement of mirroring the other person allows that same emotion to go throughout our bodies, meaning that we then feel what they're trying to express.

Without those small, muscular instincts, we don't "capture" that same feeling and we do feel it less, which makes us less likely to understand. And that's on such a microscopic level that I'm not saying Botox makes you a bad listener or anything—but it does point to how we're wired for a certain amount of unconscious movement that shapes everything that we do. When you replace that learning with typing or scrolling, there is a literal impact on how you wire your brain, understanding, and more (cue spiel about AI atrophying critical thinking muscles too—but I digress.) It's also why it's so fascinating to figure out the mind/body line and what is an ethical amount of challenge or suffering to aim for, physically.

What Really Matters

There's also some fascinating science and philosophy related to how time passes when we're online, and how it creates this sort of "endless now" that contributes to the feeling I've had lately that it's Groundhog Day—like I wake up and so much is similar, and I pour into these ecosystems for the hope of my deep work taking off but end the day somewhat unmoored chronologically.

All my favorite activities relate to flow and mastery and the outdoors and grit, so it's no wonder that the endless scroll feels icky. But it also sticks me in that awful paradox of needing time to pass and growth to build, but not wanting to wish the time away (a theme here, forever.)

There's an often-cited quote about phone use about how if the product is free, the product is you, because these tech ecosystems are collecting your data to target in marketing (which also relates to aspects of living like our uneven political climate, fears of finitude, paradox of choice, etc,.

And then, of course, I'm envious of those I know who can go entirely offline, and that's a conversation I've had with many. My blog community is so incredible to me, and has given me every opportunity. The way to make all this more sustainable to me (to write books without working three jobs, to not be so damn exhausted, to build a life making meaningful creative work) is to be visible. To throw myself out there as much as possible.

I can maintain the reverence for nature and literature and meaning and genuine connection, but I also then have to find a way to translate that into something livable. Because we cannot all be Mary Oliver, who built her house for about $8. (Great story.)

So until you reach that point of critical mass, you can't disappear—not in this line of work, anyway. Some people get lucky, but I generally believe that it's best to work as hard as if you are the rule and not the exception up until the point that people (please) hopefully throw their weight behind you and your voice.

Those I know who don't engage in the Internet are in jobs or careers that support that entirely. For me, the question becomes more about finding my line: what makes me feel transparent versus vulnerable? What amount of polish am I willing to give up? What is manipulation versus honesty, and does navigating the social media space require too much of the former?

And then, sometimes there's just that gnawing sense when you put down your phone after sending a text or posting something and feel like nobody heard you at all.

Books mentioned:

• Irresistible by Adam Alter
• How to Disappear by Akiko Busch
• The Organized Mind by Daniel J Levitin, PhD
• Walden by Henry David Thoreau
• The Molecule of More by Daniel Z. Lieberman and Michael E. Long
• The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt
• Awe by Dacher Keltner
• Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver