Last night, after seven years of relative anonymity, my blog was finally read.
I mean, really read.
Some 89 of the over 850 pieces were selected from the anthology, appearing by name in the stats.
As I clicked through each of them for a re-read as author, silently noting each among my best I had to acknowledge that, whomever the equally silent visitor, he or she had chosen the printable list. You know. The stuff worth publishing.
I’d begun defiantly enough. Other would-be authors, with the gene for driving forward, would seek agents and press on until their own work reached the shelves of the best book stores. I would not be among them. Taking the path of quasi-humility, I would merely write; if my work were worthy, somebody would eventually just find it. Ah, the naivete of insularity.
Predictably, years passed. Nine, if one counted these past couple months. Ideas kept erupting. My fingers kept grasping them, preciously carrying every one to the keyboard to reach fulfillment. I’d remain there, editing endlessly, until each was set to “publish”, that rather pathetic facsimile provided by the hosting site for the far more powerful reality.
Friends would pass by, for the occasional visit. Even fewer among them would find reason to compliment the efforts. Then, the stats began. Soon, they declared regions and nations well beyond the United States. I counted them. Could it be? Had my one, anonymous blog really garnered a world wide readership?
I grew to believe, in my private heart, that I could write. Should it matter, therefore, if anybody actually paid hard-earned money for the privilege of a read?
Somebody finally told me, several years hence, that those visitors I fancied coming from every country on the planet were no more than web travelers choosing to appear incognito; one could sign in, citing any remote province on a given continent. My suspicions commenced.
By the time I realized that my work was likely being lifted, copied, pasted, parsed, reconstituted, translated……I’d passed the 500 mark. Five hundred plus finished essays, and poems. Who would care, anymore?
Last night, somebody did. Somebody hailing from “Poland.” I hope to God whomever this is will, at the very least, attach my name as author to each saved selection.
Everybody needs identity. We all deserve, okay desperately need, to believe we’ve made something of our puny lives. Perhaps you, my reader, will rise above mere plagiarism and be worthy of your own, as well.
Copyright 2/19/23. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Oh, what the hell.
2 thoughts on “The Reader.”
Just a thought…there are millions of scammers, thieves, would-be potential mates. I always believed everything everyone said until I found out otherwise. I would hate to see you get scammed, lied to and disappointed, RA.
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Well, Jood, if I’ve been scammed and ripped off, it’s pretty much too late to do anything about it, right? Thank God, WordPress holds dates of entry as proof; whether ghost writers alter their dates of origination is out of my control, yes?