I’ve been writing for a long time. All amateur work that could use a good editor of course, but for a time some of my stories had been getting enough attention that I was seriously considering trying to get published. I was passionate about writing, although I mainly wrote a lot of nonsense. Creepypastas and things of that nature. I used to scribble out different scenes in the backroom at work during my break. I enjoyed the interactive aspects that these stories could have with their readers. The sudden twists you could throw at your audience, or the dread that you could build up in them with the heavy foreshadow of doom. I thought my readers were having fun. They left me numerous questions, praise (and scrutiny), and creepy DMs. I duly responded to the questions, sheepishly accepted their praise, and learned to handle the embarrassment that comes with such public criticisms. The DMs I reported and blocked.
My views were declining. I tried not to let that bother me. It felt like such an egotistical thing to get upset over, as if these internet points really meant anything to me.
Of course they do. You want to get published, right?
I couldn’t help but think that. I needed people to interact with my stories. I needed the attention. It was my only way out of my dead-end job. I still think it could be.
I continued to write. I had formerly been posting weekly, but I began to post more often. I tried researching what times are best to post at in order to increase the amount of views. It didn’t matter though. In fact, somehow the number of readers had decreased even more.
They say that you shouldn’t turn your hobby into a job as you run the risk of hating that which you used to love. I don’t know if I really believe that, but maybe there is some truth in it. I became depressed over it. I was wallowing in self-pity, feeling stupid for taking the internet so seriously. For letting myself think that I could do something. Leave some mark on the world. I’d rummaged through the top cabinet and fished out an old bottle of Malibu that I’d once used in a cocktail for a Halloween party. I’d stopped writing for a few weeks at this point. No one had really noticed.
It was while I was in this state of drunken self-loathing that I received a message from a former regular reader of mine.
“Hey. Have you seen this?”
Followed by a link to someone called “Kittyreads.”
“Heeey! Hi, everyone, and welcome back to ‘Kittyreads!’”
She looked to be about 20 or so, Brown hair pulled into a high pony with an exaggerated pink bow, bangs, dark eyes. She was pretty. Her makeup was immaculate (although it could’ve been the filter), and I was a little envious. She seemed to have the kind of platform that I wanted. This clip alone had more than 50,000 likes. Who knows how many views.
“Today I’ve got a spooky one for you all.”
“Alright,” she whispered. “Let’s get right to it.”
She proceeded to read one of my stories. It was the one about the cursed-refurbished computer. I wasn’t particularly fond of this story, it had just been one of the ones I had frantically churned out when trying to increase my readership, but Kitty brought it to life. There was no way to compete with her. Of course she was going to have more views.
So I messaged her. I thought at first, well, maybe there’s a misunderstanding. She might not realize that it’s stealing. (Of course she does. Those are my readers who are watching her).
“Hi! I’m the author of that story that you read on November 8th. It looks like you have been reading a lot of my stories, and while I am flattered that you are enjoying them, these stories are not for personal use. I would like to ask you to please take down any of the videos that use my stories for the time being. Perhaps some can be edited in the future to give credit to me. Thank you!”
It wasn’t even an hour later that I got a reply.
“You shouldn’t have posted it on a public if you didn’t want people to use it.”
“Okay, well, are you going to take the videos down?”
“Fuck off.”
I was going to report her. Actually, I’m pretty sure I did, but I was so angry. I’ve always had a short temper. It’s something I really do need to get better about.
So I started to write. I poured my heart into this one. I truly did. All my rage (stolen views, stolen future, who does she think she is, thatbitch, whodoesshethinksheis! WHO THE FUCK). It was cathartic. The story was chaotic, rambling, but you could feel it. It was hot to the touch, the kind of story that seemed to produce it’s own fire. A mother turning away for a moment, losing their child in a crowd. The panic. The rage upon finding the strange woman as she attempts to push the child into the backseat of her car. The horror upon the tragedy that occurs in the ensuring struggle, resulting in the loss of the child’s life. And finally, the curse that the mother leaves on the woman in revenge. “Evanescet fur.” And I gave my rage form.
I sent the story directly to her. Told her I meant it as a gesture of goodwill. The exposure would be good for me after all. She could leave all of her videos up, but if should could be ever so kind as to give me credit going forward, I would so appreciate it.
She must’ve gobbled that right up (she’d been low on material for a while now), because now it’s all gone. Not only the videos where she read my stories, but all of them. Her account itself is completely gone.
And so, I might get back to writing again. I might continue my break though. I’m sure someone else will just come along to take Kittyreads’ place in this great-big internet ecosystem after all, but I’m going to try to not let it get me down too much.