“There’s no procedure, no pill, no person,” writes Allie Rowbottom in her piercing debut novel Aesthetica. “Salvation is incremental, a smattering of small braveries.” Set in the not-so-distant future when Instagram is as irrelevant as Facebook and the age of the influencer is fading fast, Aesthetica tells the story of Anna Wrey, a former internet celebrity who, on the eve of undergoing a risky cosmetic surgery, is confronted by a part of her past that she thought was long buried. I had the pleasure of talking with Allie about navigating social media as a writer, the intersection of beauty and aesthetic, fiction and nonfiction, controlling your public narrative, and much more.
Mila Jaroniec: Aesthetica is your second book after the memoir Jell-O Girls, and it’s your fiction debut. In both your nonfiction and fiction, your narrators engage in similar moments of micro-reflection, where their thought processes and motives are revealed through what feel like intimations. Do you think writing with that type of awareness is more difficult in fiction or nonfiction? Or is it about the same, because you can’t write nonfiction about yourself without also turning into a character, in a way?
Allie Rowbottom: I think it’s way harder in fiction. Emotional exposition is the purview of the memoir form—feelings can be told in nonfiction (though I personally try to “scene” them as much as possible), whereas in fiction they should be shown. In other words, fiction should leave less space for characters to narrate their own motives, and more space for the audience to deduce those motives by interpreting the characters’ actions, which is satisfying and makes readers feel smart. So yes, the old “show don’t tell” adage is one I do find helpful in a general sense. Often I read novels that are great but could have benefitted from translating summarized material into shown material. I think the places I get away with expository self-awareness in Aesthetica have to do with the structure of the novel, inasmuch as there are two timelines and in one of them, the character is looking back on her girlhood and thinking about what she knows now that she didn’t know then.
MJ: Reflecting on online irrelevance, Anna remarks, “Only gone a day and I felt myself slipping, felt how easy it would be to simply fade away. Focusing on my platform was another protective measure. If I lost @annawrey, I would be one step closer to entirely alone.” How do you think this might apply to the writing world? As writers, we’re increasingly pushed to “engage,” and while it’s a useful tool for promotion, it can be a mental and emotional strain. It can also unintentionally damage our careers—we all have that one writer whom we’ve stopped reading or following because they’re annoying on the internet. How do you see this unfolding in the future of literature?
AR: While publishing both my books I’ve been assured by my team that I should engage on social media only to the extent that I’m comfortable, which is very kind and does take into account that not every writer is a natural-born Instagram or Twitter personality. But at the end of the day, I’m not one of the few writers plucked by the National Book Foundation or chosen by that secret PR person I keep hearing about who charges six figures to get you on the prize lists and elevate you to literary stardom. I’m trying to sell a book here—of course I’m going to post about it. And I’m going to build a social media platform that feels authentic to me in order to promote my writing.
It’s a lot of work. But I feel best when I’m using social media to control the narrative around my book. The online aesthetic of most publishers isn’t the same as mine, and I’m not going to let Aesthetica exist on Instagram only in posts with someone’s cat or pumpkin spice latte or knitting needles. Bottom line: the imperative to post is a new thing inasmuch as social media is new. But it’s not like writers (many of them famous and widely read) weren’t show-boaters or hypertrophic personalities in the past. Like, would Mark Twain be on Instagram if he were alive today? Yes! Obviously! He would be twirling his mustache on TikTok!
MJ: What do you think the future of social media is, in the next decade and beyond?
AR: In the future-tense timeline of Aesthetica, I hint that Instagram has become an app for old folks and CGI influencers and has been replaced by the “next thing.” I keep what that “next thing” is vague because I thought speculating too much would take the book in a dystopian direction I wasn’t aiming for and feared might be distracting. But generally, I think that when it comes to image-based platforms, the next thing will be more of the same, with slight twists, over and over again, developing in some ways but never straying from the core ideology of image and therefore objectification. Yes, all these apps say they are for people, but we all know they’re for the market. They’re performances of capitalism which will adapt to suit the cultural moment but will never stop trying to sell. And bodies sell.
MJ: In the literary world, so many of our friendships and relationships are conducted almost exclusively online. I’m often tempted to delete all social media (and have before, temporarily), but it’s become almost indispensable both personally and professionally. Are you ever tempted to go entirely offline? Do you ever do social media detoxes? How do you meaningfully engage without losing your mind?
AR: I don’t start my day online and that makes a big difference. I write first, or work on stuff for my students or editing clients, then I post and answer DMs. I don’t do strict detoxes, because I try very hard not to get to a place where I need a strict detox. I try not to binge on social media, and the most helpful tool I have for not binging is remembering how bad it makes me feel when I do. Previously in my career I’ve felt certain that what I’m working toward is the privilege of being entirely offline to the point of near invisibility, like Ottessa Moshfegh. Hers was an invisibility that extended to her books themselves; go look for an author photo on any of her novels. This to me was why I’d gotten into writing in the first place—when I write, I leave my body a little and I wanted that freedom from embodiment in the business part of my career too, a freedom I imagined Ottessa had. And, most importantly, she was taken as seriously as male writers.
But then, she started modeling, doing more podcasts and readings, and people discovered her Depop. I felt a sort of despair. She’d had a privilege few women attain, that of intellect disconnected from corporeality and the ceaseless cultural reminders of our corporeality as a defining factor in our worth. She was respected for her mind and her talent and even her absence from social media felt like clout in and of itself. Then she gave it up. I imagine she got bored of life behind the scenes. I imagine she wanted to be seen and, in some ways, objectified (and I don’t mean that negatively), though maybe I’m projecting. But either way, the desire to be seen is human. And who among us can just opt out of the cultural messaging we all internalize from early childhood? Who wouldn’t want to enjoy the perks of fame, or engage with readers and enjoy their enjoyment of the art you’ve so carefully made for them?
MJ: You’ve mentioned before that you were somewhat disappointed with the media coverage of Jell-O Girls. What have you learned about book promotion since your first publishing experience? What sort of treatment are you hoping for with Aesthetica?
AR: I learned that you can’t expect anyone to do anything for you. Sounds harsh, but I think there’s a common misconception among writers who are just starting out that your agent, or your editor, or your PR team, will take the reins for you in a meaningful way. This was a mistake I made with Jell-O Girls. The thing is: all those people are wonderful and well meaning, but they have many books to support. They’re your crew, but you’re the captain. You’re steering this yacht. With Jell-O Girls, I remember feeling like if I advocated for myself in a certain way, or worked to control the narrative surrounding my book, I would be branded “difficult,” and my book deal would be rescinded. Looking back that sounds crazy—that’s not how things work, at least not in present-day publishing. But I was green and overwhelmed. I had expected that book to go to a small academic press; instead, it sold in a big deal to Little, Brown. Put bluntly, I had extreme imposter syndrome, which I think is very common with debut books and can have a paralyzing effect on first time authors who are so concerned with expressing their gratitude for even being in the game that they don’t push for more. Now—especially having fought for Aesthetica every step of the way—I know I belong here. I know I’m the captain!
