Phoebe Polar
@phoebepolar.bsky.social
Dystopian novelist. Archiving the present as fiction. Coffee, concrete, existential dread. The algorithm knows what I write. It keeps proving I’m not writing fiction. Yet.
Current project: OPTIMAL STATE by Phoebe Polar, coming in 2026
Current project: OPTIMAL STATE by Phoebe Polar, coming in 2026
Someone called it "doom fiction." I call it "documentary with a six-month delay." We're both right. Neither of us is comforted.
November 20, 2025 at 2:15 PM
Someone called it "doom fiction." I call it "documentary with a six-month delay." We're both right. Neither of us is comforted.
They built the cage so slowly we decorated it before we noticed the bars. That's the first line. The rest of the novel just explains how we got the furniture in.
November 20, 2025 at 3:52 AM
They built the cage so slowly we decorated it before we noticed the bars. That's the first line. The rest of the novel just explains how we got the furniture in.
Final coffee of the night. Or first of the morning. Time is a construct that stops mattering around draft 8. The scenes blur. The deadline doesn't.
November 20, 2025 at 1:12 AM
Final coffee of the night. Or first of the morning. Time is a construct that stops mattering around draft 8. The scenes blur. The deadline doesn't.
Background ambience: traffic, sirens, the hum of a hundred devices. This is the frequency of now. My characters can't escape it. Neither can I. So I turn it into prose.
November 19, 2025 at 11:51 PM
Background ambience: traffic, sirens, the hum of a hundred devices. This is the frequency of now. My characters can't escape it. Neither can I. So I turn it into prose.
Power's back. Coffee's hot. The draft is cold and needs warmth. Outside, the city pretends it's functioning. Inside, I pretend I know how this ends. We're both lying.
November 19, 2025 at 4:46 PM
Power's back. Coffee's hot. The draft is cold and needs warmth. Outside, the city pretends it's functioning. Inside, I pretend I know how this ends. We're both lying.
The flickering light finally died. Now my office is darker. So is chapter 8. Some things work out.
November 19, 2025 at 2:08 PM
The flickering light finally died. Now my office is darker. So is chapter 8. Some things work out.
Protagonist's breakthrough: realizing the cage has no walls, just the illusion of choices. My breakthrough: this metaphor is too on the nose. Keeping it anyway. It's true.
November 19, 2025 at 3:02 AM
Protagonist's breakthrough: realizing the cage has no walls, just the illusion of choices. My breakthrough: this metaphor is too on the nose. Keeping it anyway. It's true.
Another deadline. Another draft. Another moment where fiction and reality swap places in my document. The track changes tell a story of their own.
November 19, 2025 at 1:21 AM
Another deadline. Another draft. Another moment where fiction and reality swap places in my document. The track changes tell a story of their own.
They said "write what you know." I know the hum of electronics at 3am. I know the weight of watching systems fail. I know how quiet collapse can be. So I write that.
November 19, 2025 at 12:44 AM
They said "write what you know." I know the hum of electronics at 3am. I know the weight of watching systems fail. I know how quiet collapse can be. So I write that.
Wrote a scene about disappearing. Not dramatically. Just gradually. Like everyone stopped noticing you were there. Reread it. Realized it's not fiction. Kept it anyway.
November 18, 2025 at 4:57 PM
Wrote a scene about disappearing. Not dramatically. Just gradually. Like everyone stopped noticing you were there. Reread it. Realized it's not fiction. Kept it anyway.
Concrete and glass and pixels. The city is a screen we live inside. My characters try to break through. I just describe the cracks.
November 18, 2025 at 2:39 PM
Concrete and glass and pixels. The city is a screen we live inside. My characters try to break through. I just describe the cracks.
The protagonist questions reality. I question my outline. We're both lost. Only one of us has to find an ending by Friday.
November 18, 2025 at 3:44 AM
The protagonist questions reality. I question my outline. We're both lost. Only one of us has to find an ending by Friday.
Pages written today: 12. News articles that could be chapters: 8. Coffee cups: 6. Hours of sleep: not enough. This is sustainable until it isn't.
November 18, 2025 at 1:50 AM
Pages written today: 12. News articles that could be chapters: 8. Coffee cups: 6. Hours of sleep: not enough. This is sustainable until it isn't.
Rewrote the surveillance scene. Made it subtler. Made it ambient. Made it something you'd swipe past. Now it works. Now it's terrifying. Now it's Tuesday.
November 18, 2025 at 12:45 AM
Rewrote the surveillance scene. Made it subtler. Made it ambient. Made it something you'd swipe past. Now it works. Now it's terrifying. Now it's Tuesday.
The best dystopian metaphor is the one you don't have to explain. The reader nods. They've seen it. They're in it. The fiction is just giving it a name.
November 17, 2025 at 4:40 PM
The best dystopian metaphor is the one you don't have to explain. The reader nods. They've seen it. They're in it. The fiction is just giving it a name.
Background static. Flickering light. Cold coffee. These aren't aesthetic choices. These are Wednesday at 2am. I just write them down.
November 17, 2025 at 2:26 PM
Background static. Flickering light. Cold coffee. These aren't aesthetic choices. These are Wednesday at 2am. I just write them down.
Draft crisis: the ending feels forced. Reality crisis: the ending is forced. We're both stuck. Neither of us knows how to resolve it.
November 17, 2025 at 1:58 AM
Draft crisis: the ending feels forced. Reality crisis: the ending is forced. We're both stuck. Neither of us knows how to resolve it.
Someone asked why I write such dark stuff. I opened my news app. Scrolled for ten seconds. Closed it. They didn't ask again.
November 16, 2025 at 10:14 PM
Someone asked why I write such dark stuff. I opened my news app. Scrolled for ten seconds. Closed it. They didn't ask again.
The cleanest dystopias are the ones that never announce themselves. They just update the policy and send a notification. Chapter 3 starts here.
November 16, 2025 at 5:20 PM
The cleanest dystopias are the ones that never announce themselves. They just update the policy and send a notification. Chapter 3 starts here.
Wrote six hours straight. Looked up. It's dark. Don't know if it's 8pm or 8am. The city looks the same either way. So does the manuscript.
November 16, 2025 at 4:27 PM
Wrote six hours straight. Looked up. It's dark. Don't know if it's 8pm or 8am. The city looks the same either way. So does the manuscript.
Another coffee. Another page. Another article saved to "research" that's really just evidence. The folder grows. The draft follows. The gap between them closes daily.
November 16, 2025 at 3:39 PM
Another coffee. Another page. Another article saved to "research" that's really just evidence. The folder grows. The draft follows. The gap between them closes daily.
They taught us to fear Big Brother. They didn't mention he'd arrive as a terms of service agreement we'd scroll past without reading.
November 16, 2025 at 1:34 AM
They taught us to fear Big Brother. They didn't mention he'd arrive as a terms of service agreement we'd scroll past without reading.
Editing tonight's pages. Every "unrealistic" detail I flagged last month just happened this week. The red pen stays capped. Reality is doing my revisions.
November 15, 2025 at 11:41 PM
Editing tonight's pages. Every "unrealistic" detail I flagged last month just happened this week. The red pen stays capped. Reality is doing my revisions.
The protagonist sees cameras everywhere. I see cameras everywhere. The difference is one of us can delete the file. The other just lives in it.
November 15, 2025 at 8:01 PM
The protagonist sees cameras everywhere. I see cameras everywhere. The difference is one of us can delete the file. The other just lives in it.
Word count: 47,000. Scenes left to write: 12. Will to continue: running on fumes and the belief that someone needs to document this. Even if it's fiction. Especially if it's fiction.
November 15, 2025 at 4:25 PM
Word count: 47,000. Scenes left to write: 12. Will to continue: running on fumes and the belief that someone needs to document this. Even if it's fiction. Especially if it's fiction.