Living and Dying on the Internet: A Review

When I found out that Alex Day had written a “tell-all” book, I was suspicious. Then curious. I was torn as to whether or not I wanted to financially support an alleged abuser--forget that I’d been financially supporting him by watching his videos four years after the YouTube abuse scandal broke.

For those of you that aren’t like me, and don’t obsess over online figures you’ve never met, you may require some background information about all this. Back in 2014, a scandal broke out in which women were coming forward to discuss being abused, manipulated, and assaulted by powerful male YouTubers. Alex Day, a popular British musician whose fame originated from a series called “Alex Reads Twilight” quickly became the face of the scandal. He was dropped by most companies he collaborated with, disappeared from the Internet for 6 months, and came back as a rebranded minimalist/yogi (as one does). Since then, he has started a new “Alex Reads Twilight” series as part of an agreement with viewers who support his Patreon page, and has continued producing music, and, most recently, a book.

This is a review of that book. 

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I found myself in a precarious position when I sat down to read this, and not just because I was on a plane. Because I am a person in the world, I have a pesky habit of being biased. And that particular bias came in the form of liking Alex Day. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust him. I wanted him to be a matured, reflective, thoughtful human being because I thought he was funny and smart and wanted to continue watching his videos.

Sounds a bit like a partner in denial, doesn’t it?

Alex Day was an influential figure in my life, as he introduced me to the world of YouTube. He inspired me to write. He seemed to have it all figured it out as he gained followers, as his music career took flight, and through it all, he never seemed to take life too seriously. As a result of Alex Day’s charm and my own naivté, I defended him. I defended him in 2014, and was ready to do it again.

Was. But we’ll get to that.

I have many things to say about this book, so I first wanted to address Day’s work on a technical level. His writing is charming and personable. Alex Day, while clearly a more talented and passionate musician than writer, has a knack for connecting with his audience. He tells a story in a captivating--albeit semi-disorganized--manner. It’s enough to pull you in and want to finish the book. As a fellow writer, I recognize what a tough mission that can be to accomplish. If Alex Day’s ultimate goal is to sell his book, he has done that with tremendous success.

However. When looking at this book rhetorically, it’s tough to identify some key points. For starters, I, and the writer himself, fail to pinpoint his target audience. Alex Day refers to the “players” in the scandal so casually, it almost seems that the reader requires some prior knowledge of the YouTube community to fully appreciate this book. There was little to no background information about Day’s more influential girlfriends, and Day refers to his former best friend, Charlie McDonnell, as though he’s a mutual friend. This type of rhetoric makes sense, given that I would probably have no interest in such a book, had I not felt invested in the community. Yet throughout the book, Day makes lazy, half-hearted attempts to pull in the older generation by explaining platforms like Facebook and Snapchat in what feels like a condescending power play.

This leads me to question, who the hell is this guy’s editor? And why didn’t he ever think to say, “you might want to identify a target audience”?

Day continues this trend by beginning the book positioning himself as an abuser--or at least an asshole who felt remorse after the fact--only to make a complete 180 halfway through and self-identify as a victim. The turn here is so abrupt, it would make even the most malleable of audiences ask questions.

Those questions could be answered by a reflective section of the book. As Day seems obsessed with recounting the past and defending his personhood through his artistic success and external validation, I was waiting for the chapter that expressed reflection, internal growth, and atonement. That chapter never seemed to make its way into the book, which seems a huge oversight on both the writer and his team. There are hints of remorse, in which Day makes statements like “I wasn’t acting out of kindness. I was acting out of fear. I wasn’t a sex addict. I wasn’t incapable of monogamy. I was just a fucking dick” and “the benefit of accepting you’re the cause of all your problems is that you alone can solve them without waiting on anyone else” (192, 193). This seems a little late for the first real signs of atonement, but it lends itself well to further reflection. Instead, Day goes on to recount further past events and push a victim narrative, leaving the impression that he was fed appetizing lines that would garner financial success and self-gratification.

This persistent contradiction points to another rhetorical issue: Day’s purpose in writing this book is not clear, in that he’s trying to do too much for too many people. At first glance, it seems that Day is trying to make amends for his abuse; at other times, he is trying to defend himself and assert his side of the story. Rather than build trust, Day snatches away a clear narrative that a well-defined reader can hold onto.

It’s possible that Day thinks the second half of his book is full of internal growth and reflection--that reflection, however, is represented by external evidence of support. Day seems to thrive on the kindness and validation of others. We all do, to a certain extent, but the “dangerous abuser” identity that Day so deeply resents seems to stem from the fact that he deems external support as demonstrative of his wholesomeness:

Across all platforms, and against all odds, with me being hated more than ever and accused of more heinous crimes than I’d ever been before, [my] video got over three million views in one week and became my most-viewed video ever….For the first time in my life, my name was in print in a physical thing that was endorsed by a third party--and it was among good-natured, wholesome articles about being kind and compassionate, to boot. (287, 288)

Day’s easily digestible identity hinges on his impulsive, creative spirit, but it is clear that he is also analytically-minded and holds great value in statistical evidence of success. That’s necessary for the success of an online persona, but less so when said persona is trying to win back the support of those he’s burned, either directly or tangentially.

As the book progresses, Day seems to further spiral down the victim narrative--yet this victimization turns aggressive as he confronts the #MeToo movement. This is the exact moment in which Day lost me, both as an engaged reader, and a subscriber: “the MeToo movement has been outstanding overall, but it also carries a lot of collateral damage, like when a controversial article about the comedian Aziz Ansari added him to the world’s no-fly zone by detailing what amounted to a pushy date” (302).

There is a lot to unpack here, and I will try to do so without flying into a fit of rage. The fact that Day uses the words “collateral damage” to refer to the victims of the #MeToo movement speaks volumes about his own perceptions of himself. I won’t go into the nuances of the Aziz Ansari case, but that is rendered irrelevant by the fact that Day’s reference to a “pushy date” includes an implied “mere” before it.

I will lay this out very plainly: you do not have to be a rapist to make a woman feel uncomfortable. Entitlement, pushiness, and control over another person are NEVER okay, regardless of one’s particular circumstances. The fact that pushy dates are normalized in our culture does NOT mean those who push against patriarchal notions of romance are too sensitive, unjustified, or not worth being listened to. It means that change is happening. And people like Alex Day are being challenged for the first time in their professional and personal lives.

Day’s response to this pushback is exactly what makes him so dangerous. His explanation of trigger warnings that follows the #MeToo reference is hostile, grossly exaggerated, and heinous--each word confirms my suspicion that Day is unable to feel empathy for anyone. Not only is this lack of empathy problematic for him as a person, but it is problematic for him as an artist who is “so not mainstream” (which, of course, is why he’s publishing a click-baity book like all those “idiotically mainstream” YouTubers), and it will continue to bite him in the ass if he wants any kind of lasting relationship with his audience.

Ironically, Day points out that “the mark of a good person lies in that person’s capacity to apologise for what they’ve done, take responsibility for their actions and make sure they learn from the pain they’ve caused in order to make sure they never do anything like it again” (220). This is all true and sounds lovely on a page, but Day’s Trumpian references to his “haters who spent the last few years calling [Day] abusive” indicate that he has learned none other than marketing his own narrative to a freshly captivated audience.

In stating, “I want to make art that’s better than I am,” Alex Day ultimately makes a choice (313)--he is so afraid of being creatively stifled, that he sacrifices the help he is so clearly crying out for in order to maintain his professional and artistic identity. Maybe Day recognizes that choice, and is fine with it. Maybe this book is one giant “gotcha” moment for the sake of publicity. We can speculate and theorize all we want, but in doing so, we are giving Day exactly what he wants. Our energy goes into the motivations of an abuser who is not interested in receiving the help he needs. Instead, our focus needs to be on the victims. We owe it to them not to separate the art from the artist. We owe it to them to refuse to look away when abuse occurs right in front of us. We owe it to the victims to fight back against and call out dangerously drunk-on-power figures like Alex Day.