published on [substack](ambient co-presence - by anniething & anniewhere) ambient copresence: reflections on writing club
loneliness has a specific flair on an urban stage. a peculiar ache of being surrounded by millions: we brush shoulders on the packed subway cars, share tables at crowded cafes, yet each exist in our own private blizzard. the strange paradox of living in a lonely city has made me wonder: what if the remedy isn’t more active socializing but a different kind of togetherness altogether?
human connection exists on a spectrum: active and passive. face-to-face versus side-by-side. the newly-arrived New Yorker falls into a predictable pattern — maximizing active exchanges, bouncing from brunch dates to happy hours in an endless social revolving door. they pursue experiences demanding full attention: analyzing new restaurants, screaming lyrics at concerts, debating politics over cocktails.
but this pursuit of constant engagement comes with hidden costs. when all our energy flows toward active connection, we place our personal growth on hold. the shared attention creates a closed loop—productive for building relationships but limiting for individual development. and at the end of a packed social calendar, we often leave the weekend feeling more drained than energized.
a more more sustainable approach lies in what developmental psychologists call parallel play: that form of quiet, side-by-side intimacy where presence matters more than performance.
picture you & me: side by side at the table, suspended the same space without demanding each other’s attention. notebooks in front of us, my pen traces idle patterns in the margins while you fill your journal with the day’s thoughts, both alone and yet profoundly together.
it goes into this idea of “ambient co-presence:” the sensation of sharing a space or context with other people, without directly interacting or continuously communicating with them.
you’re all aware of each other through peripheral vision, ambient noise, and embodied sensations but aren’t necessarily doing the same tasks or directing your attention to the same things.
it’s why we cramp up in crowded coffee shops, to bask in the silent ambient noise of people chatting and tapping away at laptops. or people-watch in the parks, to obesrve the dog owners greet each other and the lovebirds revel in the sunlight.
parallel play is how New Yorkers are tackling the loneliness epidemic. the kids are starting book clubs where the only thing participants share is a mutual resolve to wake up early. regular coworking sessions. even scrapbooking parties where there’s an assortment of art supplies and clay to choose from. we may paint different pictures but we grab the same paints, crimson and vermillion getting on our hands. “being alone together” provides social connection without the emotional demands of active interaction.
the past year, i’ve been running casual writing clubs with my friend justin. we’ve experimented with different sizes, types of people, and environments. what’s endured is a biweekly ritual: a recurring cast gathering around an s-shaped wooden table as the hudson river swallow the dying sun whole, katy perry throwbacks and snippets of passerby conversation creating an unintentional soundtrack above our hunched heads.
these creative spaces require intentional cultivation, akin to tending to a garden. how do we create conditions for growth without forcing it?
literary history romanticizes the solitary writer: thoreau holed up in his cabin, proust in his bedroom with the curtains drawn.
yet this precedent feels at odds with our interconnected present. the most innovative writing emerges at the intersections — where diverse experiences collide and cross-pollinate.
the quiet presence of others immersed in their own creative flow is a way of validating and energizing our own work — in a way that solitude cannot. how else can i explain the magic in glancing up from my laptop to see shirling lost in her thoughts, bahar writing away in a little journal, justin’s brows furrowed as he focuses on the screen?
susan sontag once wrote: writing is a little door.
if writing is a door, writing club is an arena of portals, by which we are given privvy to the depths of each other’s minds. it’s a precious luxury, to enter doorways into each other’s mental landscapes. writers shouldn’t be in isolation, but rather, in conversation — with the paper, with other writers, and always with the world around us.
the ephemeral nature of these gatherings holds its own special power. for precisely two hours, we share a pregnant presence—a moment of connection that’s fleeting but deeply meaningful, warmth contained within the temporal boundaries we’ve established. These transient spaces remind us to be fully present. I’m creating moments suspended in time where people can engage without worrying about permanence, performance, or perfection.
this month, i’ll be thinking out loud how to sustain this presence across digital boundaries without losing its essential qualities. how to grow yet maintain quiet intimacy. i went to a beautiful birthday dinner from a friend who commented that this year, she finds herself done making friends. “look at the dining table,” she gestured. “there’s no more seats left.”
intimacy requires limitations but also freedom. how do we cultivate writing club as a home for our wayward thoughts, but also experiment with how we envision it?
so here’s to the ambient copresence, to the gentle hum of keyboards and the scratching of pens, to the shared silences and unexpected laughter. here’s to writing not just as a solitary act, but as a collective heartbeat—one that keeps us connected even when the words fail us.
“Writing is a little door,” Susan Sontag wrote in her diary. as we mature, it’s important to think critically and create art as we shape our own point of view. but it’s equally important to develop these ideas in concert with others, and address our very human desire for companionship.
there’s something about witnessing others in their creative process that validates and energizes our own work.
the same way that substack bills itself as an engine for culture, it’s crucial we preserve and protect these spaces in our real lives. The creative writer does the same as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously. ”> [A] piece of creative writing, like a day-dream, is a continuation of, and a substitute for, what was once the play of childhood.”
“Some fantasies, like big pieces of furniture, won’t come through.”
if writing is a door, writing club is an arena of portals, by which we are given privvy to the depths of each other’s minds. writers shouldn’t be in isolation, but rather, in conversation — with the paper, with other writers, and always with the world around us.
in this thinking there are some values that preserve tightly: maintaining a baseline closeness amongst the participants (which means it resists scale). at a friend’s birthday party, she said a beautiful thing on friendships: she simply doesn’t have enough seats for more around her dining table.
there is a beauty the ephemerality of community meetings. for a set two hours, we share each other’s warmth a pregnant presence and moment of connection thats fleeting but deeply meaningful. the warmth limited to the two hours we come together.
The beauty of ephemeral spaces is that they remind us to be present. i’m trying to create a moment suspended in time, where people can fully engage without worrying about permanence or performance or pefection.
this month i’ll be thinking out loud on how to sustain this presence — to cultivate the feeling of togetherness across digital boundaries.
writing club has become more than just a space to write—it’s become a refuge, a laboratory, and most importantly, a home for our wayward thoughts.
so here’s to the ambient copresence, to the gentle hum of keyboards and the scratching of pens, to the shared silences and unexpected laughter. Here’s to writing not just as a solitary act, but as a collective heartbeat—one that keeps us connected even when the words fail us.
in copenhagen, i did a graphic design inquiry on cafe culture that could be summed up with this pithy statement: cafes create community, comfort, and culture.
i think a strong allure of cafes comes from how they intentionally craft these spaces for ambient social intimacy, where you.
Ambient social intimacy · Distillations
What Freud Said About Writing Fiction - The Atlantic how do you solve the loneliness crisis ?
bring people together into
reflecting on writing club: what works, what doesn’t
“Ambient co-presence is the sensation of sharing a space or context with other people, without directly interacting or continuously communicating with them. You’re all aware of each other through peripheral vision, ambient noise, and embodied sensations but aren’t necessarily doing the same tasks or directing your attention to the same things.
This looks like quietly reading on the back porch with family, sitting in a cafe full of people softly chatting or tapping away at laptops, or people watching from a shabby seat on the London underground, marvelling at the vast array of people that can exist in a single space.
The others rarely demand your attention or strike up conversations. They just exist nearby, unobtrusively doing whatever they’re doing. Providing companionship, comfort, and small windows of insight into how others choose to show up in the world and spend their time.”
“each in his own private blizzard.” -margaret atwood
it’s far too easy to get overstimulated in the city. this chaos intensifies when i am alone: navigating the barrage of tourists at times square on the way to work, hurtling past an obstacle of bodies on my morning run by the hudson. i am a people person and for the most part, people please me.
cozy co-working spots Margaret Archer calls contextual continuity The continuity that such circumstances made possible provided a reliable stock of common reference points, taken for granted understandings and modes of self-expression: a _shared mental furniture
“When we share this common mental furniture, it becomes easier to externally communicate our internal conversations: the other is much more likely to understand what we mean when we disclose our inner life to them. They understand where we’re coming from”
This sesnsation I’m trying to capture is quiet companionship of someone else. Reading next to others in a cafe, writing next to them in a public food court. “The sensation of being in the quiet companionship of someone else, like reading next to them in a cafe, is what we’re missing. The sense of ambiently sharing space – of being co-present – while engaged in other activities is a staple of shared public spaces that we’re still figuring out how to design in the digital realm.”