“It’s all in the game though, right?”
The writer, the Shitty Boyfriend and the algorithmic Theatre of the Absurd.
“It’s all in the game though, right?” - Omar Little, The Wire
In early December, The Guardian published “My boyfriend, a writer, broke up with me because I’m a writer” by American author Isabel Kaplan. For weeks, the essay and the response to it took up space in my mind. So – “because I’m a writer” – I wrote about it. This is me, walking a positionality tightrope.
In sum, Kaplan went through a shitty, on-again, off-again relationship. Twice she moved for the Shitty Boyfriend—to Paris, and then New York (where she has family and friends, apparently). Personally, I can’t imagine the indignity of a young writer moving to Paris or New York for love. What’s next, Barcelona? Rome?! London!?!
As noted, however, the relationship: shitty. The boyfriend: a dick. Among other issues, he seemed jealous of her success, perhaps threatened by it. Eventually, he broke up with her, again (for good this time, we can probably assume).
Ah, but Kaplan has her revenge, and it ain’t served cold. In fact, she pulls off the ex-move of all ex-moves, some Thanos-with-six-Ininity-Gems-level shit: She writes about it, as a writer would, but she writes about it, in sharp, artful prose, and then pitches the story – get this – to the Guardian. One of the most prominent public platforms in the English-speaking world.
The gatekeepers there, perhaps predicting that the piece might explode – last year’s answer to the Bad Art Friend – published it. And Kaplan’s account goes about as viral as anything can in the writing community, earning praise and a plug from the inimitable Roxane Gay, no less.
In any case, when the initial wave of schadenfreude waned, I couldn’t help but think: Wait a minute, what? Did this person really pillory their ex in one of the most popular newspapers on the planet?1
Let’s be clear: Kaplan’s concern with this relationship is not abuse, but respect. The Rodney Dangerfield stuff. She writes: “In any relationship, there is an expectation of privacy. There is also an expectation of respect. Violate the latter and you relinquish your right to the former.”
Ah, yes, a “How do you like them apples?” moment. As well-written as the rest of the piece is, this part stands out for the infancy of its logic. Kaplan’s sentiment is, of course, correct: With bad behavior – disrespect, in Dangerfield terms – we do renounce our right to privacy. But we give it up to a group chat, for example, or a get-together over drinks. Not the Guardian newspaper, and a subsequent a pile-on online.
Ultimately, though, this isn’t about Isabel Kaplan. I mean, really, who cares? A young, successful white woman had a Shitty Boyfriend and – with the access that only success and whiteness affords – wrote about it in a major newspaper. Not to mention, other vectors intersect: the gatekeepers at the Guardian; the appetites of the algorithm; and the demands of late, or neoliberal, or what-have-you capitalism, which has stripped the politics from identity politics, the political from the personal, and sold us back our stories – for our entertainment, not our liberation.
Why am I writing about it, then? Because to me, the entire story, from pitch, to publication, to reaction, feels emblematic of our current cultural and artistic context. It’s the water we’re swimming in, or the air we’re breathing – or a better metaphor, if you have one.
And I’m tired of it.
I’m tired of the infinite scroll of malfunctional communication. The mean-spirited, venomous commentary. The crowd-sourced, coordinated cruelty. The dilution of discourse to near-homeopathic potencies. The takes, the endless takes, inane or insane. This algorithmic Theatre of the Absurd.
I’m tired of how, as artists, writers and musicians, we’ve no choice but to harness harmful, habit-forming platforms to show our work. It’s the echo chamber, or exile: Take your pick. Create content, or content yourself without a career.
Sink hours of your days in the service of some of the wealthiest companies the world has ever seen. Parse the paraphernalia of your daily life, mine the minutiae of your relationship, violate the privacy of your children – all in the hope that, maybe, an ever-changing, ambiguous algorithm might cast a glance your way.
I mean, can we even blame Isabel Kaplan? It’s hard out here for a writer. Kaplan did what Kaplan had to: She stacked her chips on red and the wheel came clicking to a halt in her favor. Who cares if the price was the privacy of someone from her past? Kaplan cashed out and quit the casino with her clout. She didn’t make the rules; hate the game, not the player.
And anyway, as noted, it isn’t about her – it isn’t about any one person. Under late, or neoliberal, or what-have-you capitalism, individual solutions to systemic problems are just another card in the confidence game. Consider this: When you flip the script, “Only You Can Start Wildfires” reveals just how dumb is the idea that only you can prevent them.
The Shitty Boyfriend did remain anonymous, at least – although, when I type “Isabel Kaplan” into the Google search bar, the second and third suggested results are “Isabel Kaplan boyfriend” and “Isabel Kaplan boyfriend name”. (Writer Megan Daum notes, in Kaplan’s defense, it is “Google-able, but only for advanced-level Googlers.”)