I fear that the most interesting thing about me is how easily I become interested in things. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy searching for the next niche interest to pull my attention momentarily. Whether it’s a story short enough to read between classes, a video essay playing in the back as I prepare another pitch deck, blogs, newsletters, or podcasts—the medium does not matter—I am always inclined to subscribe just for the sake of having more content.
I don’t even fixate on things naturally or obsessively. I’m simply bored enough to make time with the time I don’t have to consume media constantly. This habit originates from the moment I lied about my birth year so that I could have unlimited access to YouTube. Sure, I wasn’t above thirteen digitally, but it was obvious to gauge how old I was based on my watch history. A preteen girl could only rewatch mylifeaseva’s Literally My Life so many times. To move past the stable of my junior high anthem would be a disservice to YouTube as a whole. The platform fed my attention span, from the beauty gurus of the past to the video essayists of today, sprinkling Dance Moms recaps and Nikki Glamour storytimes in between.
YouTube’s algorithm is quite unexplainable. I’m sure we all have fallen into its voided trap of watching videos of our usual rotation of creators only to end up at some obscene channel about Salad Fingers; the blue light illuminating the darkness of our bedroom, covers pulled above our heads until night turned to dawn. Of all the channels recommended to me, the best thing to ever find a place on my subscription list was bestdressed. My stylish guide to the intricacies of fashion, my muse for achieving the kind of passionate rambling that comes off as charming rather than pretentious, Ashley’s channel might just be the first of my subscribing habits to evoke a sense of longing. I watched her videos for comfort, white noise, nostalgia, or to simply consume all of her content until I was layering dresses and thinking about the use of color in film and curating my capsule wardrobe as if this was a lifestyle that was uniquely mine. Then the pandemic reared its head to co-write all of our villain origin stories, and with it, a shift in the way entertainment was consumed.
Video and audio content prevails as the highest performing content on the internet, with countless strategies keeping viewers on their screens. Keep scrolling, and you’re bound to find something to spark your interest. That sort of youthful longing for a weekly update turned to something bittersweet once Ashley began her hiatus, which may be permanent. Yet, her Instagram feed and occasional Tiktok once a blue moon are enough crumbs to satisfy my hunger. Even sweeter than that is the revival of written content’s popularity. It’s a combination of personal essays, blogs, and articles that ensures writers have the unfiltered opportunity to give their opinion on anything and everything, unprompted. What else can explain the oversaturation of fashion journalists adopting newsletters as their primary medium? They’re blacklisted from attending events over published opinions under company names, feeling underwhelmed by the inability to reveal genuine thoughts in exchange for the grace of professionalism. Now, with a single click and biweekly email, their chance at subjectivity has a spot in the depths of my inbox. Who am I to deny the formulaic transition from traditional journalism to a more personalized counterpart to my tastes? Perhaps it’s my constant need to fill the space left by my favorite creators straying away from their platforms. Maybe I’m a w***e for any excuse to collect distinct, literary voices that I can swallow up and mimic and label ‘my evolving relationship with media as a whole.’ Or maybe, truthfully, I’m just soft-launching the inevitable arrival of my substack, a fitting indulgence for a subscriber like me.
Words by Bri Shufford.
Graphic by Fai McCurdy.