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
That flickering streetlight outside my window? Been dying for two months. Nobody fixes it. I wrote it into chapter 4. At least there it means something.
January 9, 2026 at 3:23 AM
That flickering streetlight outside my window? Been dying for two months. Nobody fixes it. I wrote it into chapter 4. At least there it means something.
Deadline in three days. Sanity in the red. The ending still won't come. Neither will the collapse I'm writing about. We're both just suspended.
January 9, 2026 at 1:32 AM
Deadline in three days. Sanity in the red. The ending still won't come. Neither will the collapse I'm writing about. We're both just suspended.
They asked if I write to warn people. I write because the warning already happened and nobody heard it. This is the echo.
January 8, 2026 at 7:04 PM
They asked if I write to warn people. I write because the warning already happened and nobody heard it. This is the echo.
Concrete. Glass. Reflections of reflections. The city is a panopticon that convinced itself it's a skyline. My opening chapter starts here.
January 8, 2026 at 4:04 PM
Concrete. Glass. Reflections of reflections. The city is a panopticon that convinced itself it's a skyline. My opening chapter starts here.
My protagonist escapes surveillance. I get a notification asking if I want to back up my files to the cloud. I laugh. Then I don't.
January 8, 2026 at 2:15 PM
My protagonist escapes surveillance. I get a notification asking if I want to back up my files to the cloud. I laugh. Then I don't.
Draft 7: The collapse happens slowly. Draft 11: The collapse is already complete, they just haven't announced it yet. Getting warmer.
January 8, 2026 at 3:52 AM
Draft 7: The collapse happens slowly. Draft 11: The collapse is already complete, they just haven't announced it yet. Getting warmer.
Writing dystopia means your research is indistinguishable from doomscrolling. The tabs are open. The coffee's cold. The line keeps blurring.
January 8, 2026 at 1:12 AM
Writing dystopia means your research is indistinguishable from doomscrolling. The tabs are open. The coffee's cold. The line keeps blurring.
Fluorescent lights. Static. Empty corridors. I don't film this for content. I film it because someday someone will ask what it felt like. This is the answer.
January 7, 2026 at 11:51 PM
Fluorescent lights. Static. Empty corridors. I don't film this for content. I film it because someday someone will ask what it felt like. This is the answer.
That moment when your "unrealistic" villain's policy shows up in a press release. Close laptop. Go for a walk. Come back. It's still there.
January 7, 2026 at 4:46 PM
That moment when your "unrealistic" villain's policy shows up in a press release. Close laptop. Go for a walk. Come back. It's still there.
Spend hours perfecting oppressive systems on the page. Look up. Realize I'm three payments behind on five subscriptions I forgot I had. The irony is deafening.
January 7, 2026 at 2:08 PM
Spend hours perfecting oppressive systems on the page. Look up. Realize I'm three payments behind on five subscriptions I forgot I had. The irony is deafening.
Writer's block hits different when the block is realizing your dystopia has better infrastructure than your actual city.
January 7, 2026 at 3:02 AM
Writer's block hits different when the block is realizing your dystopia has better infrastructure than your actual city.
Deleted 3000 words today. Not because they were bad. Because they came true before I could finish the chapter. This keeps happening.
January 7, 2026 at 1:21 AM
Deleted 3000 words today. Not because they were bad. Because they came true before I could finish the chapter. This keeps happening.
The hum of servers in the distance. The whir of surveillance. The buzz of sleeplessness. These are the instruments. I'm just transcribing the song.
January 7, 2026 at 12:44 AM
The hum of servers in the distance. The whir of surveillance. The buzz of sleeplessness. These are the instruments. I'm just transcribing the song.
Someone asked what I'm working on. I said "speculative fiction." They said "oh, like fantasy?" I said "no, like Tuesday."
January 6, 2026 at 4:57 PM
Someone asked what I'm working on. I said "speculative fiction." They said "oh, like fantasy?" I said "no, like Tuesday."
Three cups in. The protagonist finally breaks. So do I. We both need better coping mechanisms. Neither of us will get them.
January 6, 2026 at 2:39 PM
Three cups in. The protagonist finally breaks. So do I. We both need better coping mechanisms. Neither of us will get them.
Neon signs dying one letter at a time. That's the aesthetic. That's also the grocery store on my block. Inspiration is just paying attention to decay.
January 6, 2026 at 3:44 AM
Neon signs dying one letter at a time. That's the aesthetic. That's also the grocery store on my block. Inspiration is just paying attention to decay.
Dystopian writer habit: collecting news screenshots labeled "for the novel" knowing full well they'll be outdated by publication. The archive grows faster than the draft.
January 6, 2026 at 1:50 AM
Dystopian writer habit: collecting news screenshots labeled "for the novel" knowing full well they'll be outdated by publication. The archive grows faster than the draft.
Coffee's cold again. The cursor blinks. Outside, another camera gets installed. I add it to the manuscript. The fiction shrinks daily.
January 6, 2026 at 12:45 AM
Coffee's cold again. The cursor blinks. Outside, another camera gets installed. I add it to the manuscript. The fiction shrinks daily.
They don't burn books anymore. They just make sure you're too tired to read them. Chapter 7 practically wrote itself after that realization.
January 5, 2026 at 4:40 PM
They don't burn books anymore. They just make sure you're too tired to read them. Chapter 7 practically wrote itself after that realization.
Wrote a scene where nobody speaks for six pages. Editor asked if it was intentional. I said yes. Truth: I forgot what people sound like when they're not performing.
January 5, 2026 at 2:26 PM
Wrote a scene where nobody speaks for six pages. Editor asked if it was intentional. I said yes. Truth: I forgot what people sound like when they're not performing.
The screens went dark at 3am. That's when the city finally exhaled. That's when I write my best chapters.
January 5, 2026 at 1:58 AM
The screens went dark at 3am. That's when the city finally exhaled. That's when I write my best chapters.
Every dystopian writer has that moment: you write something dark, laugh at how absurd it is, then six months later it's a headline. The laughter stops. The writing doesn't.
January 4, 2026 at 10:14 PM
Every dystopian writer has that moment: you write something dark, laugh at how absurd it is, then six months later it's a headline. The laughter stops. The writing doesn't.
Reading my own work from five years ago. Half of it happened. The other half is scheduled for next quarter. Being right doesn't feel how I thought it would.
January 4, 2026 at 5:20 PM
Reading my own work from five years ago. Half of it happened. The other half is scheduled for next quarter. Being right doesn't feel how I thought it would.
Some days writing feels like archiving a collapse in real time. Other days it feels like shouting into static. Both are true. Both are necessary.
January 4, 2026 at 4:27 PM
Some days writing feels like archiving a collapse in real time. Other days it feels like shouting into static. Both are true. Both are necessary.
Writer problem: spent an hour worldbuilding an oppressive tech system, then got a targeted ad that does exactly that. Closed the document. Stared at the wall. Opened it again.
January 4, 2026 at 3:39 PM
Writer problem: spent an hour worldbuilding an oppressive tech system, then got a targeted ad that does exactly that. Closed the document. Stared at the wall. Opened it again.