In her work, she could distill the senses therapists worried about, clean pathos, make it useful. Something that wasn’t an emotion, a directed stream, charged through her body and, blinkered, she saw only what must be done. It was a reliable need. She must convince.
Post-celebrity was the word she used when she walked into meetings. She had a handheld controller, and when she pressed a button an X appeared over stars endorsing sports drinks. She talked about the hunger of real people for real people. In better-looking people, consumers could see themselves. She said, dirt under the fingernails. She said, everyone has a story.
They are telling them.
It is time for ads to imitate life.
She shone Cathexis profiles through a projector. Look at the success of just-like-us, models in their frumpy PJs. There is a pleasure to seeing images of myself—but. As though recognized by the screen.
We are post-critic, take back the ratings, consumer-driven relevance come in thumbs north and south.
What does your neighbor have?
We call this democracy.
Let’s look at the Oscars. Based on a true story. Memoirs. This spike is personal essays. We see unfavorables on the media.
But in blogs we trust.
The woman who slept with her biological father. Those metrics nearly took down the server.
Who are you? is the only question. They are saying, I am here. My voice matters.
We are seeing unfavorables on “the system.”
They are airing laundry. Having a lifestyle is a lifestyle. They are skeptical of what isn’t ironic.
Who are you to tell me?
We have an ethos. Unfiltered stories. These markets are amenable to narrative. They are desirous of life.
They are afraid of being tricked, but they are more afraid of missing out. We are seeing the possibilities of bottomless stories.
Chekhov said the gun hung over the mantle must go off.
And of course, she thought, standing in that loveless office room, their daughter would come, and then she and Jeremy would be comprehensively a happy story. Her daughter would not feel that family in her life always tended to fall away into silence and disappearance. She would not worry that she could not persuade into being intimacy that persisted. They would give the girl beautiful picture books and bears, nighttime tuck-ins and advice, and their daughter would always know she belonged.