Beware the Cyberthief!

"Because of the Internet, the world has expanded exponentially. Consequently, keeping track of our brain children has become impossible." 

By Rose Madeline Mula

After decades of writing, with a few small successes, last fall I finally made the big time. One of my articles appeared in a nationally syndicated feature. Ann Landers devoted an entire column to it. She dispensed no advice that day—just shared my essay which she hoped her readers would enjoy as much as she had. Friends in Albuquerque, Los Angeles, New York, Miami, and Washington, D.C. phoned to say they had seen it.

I should have been thrilled, excited, ecstatic. Instead I was furious, irate, frustrated. Why? Instead of carrying my byline, the piece was attributed to an unknown author. The friends who had called had simply recognized the article as mine because I had sent them copies when I first wrote it two years ago. My D.C. “fan” who read it in the “Washington Post” gushed, “You’re famous!” Sure I am. Famous anonymously.

My article concerned a strange old lady who had mysteriously gained access to my house when I wasn’t looking and just moved in. For the most part she kept out of sight, but I’d occasionally glimpse her as I passed a mirror. I then recounted the crone’s activities, which were ruining my life. As you can imagine, it’s not easy for a gorgeous young woman like me to adjust to such eccentricities. And now the old hag had found her way to Ann Landers without even telling Ann that I had discovered her. The ultimate affront. 

In her column, Ms. Landers identified a cousin in Phoenix as the person who had sent her the piece. I found said cousin with surprising ease through a Phoenix information operator. I phoned. Cousin raved about the article. “Ann and I laughed and laughed!” she said. “I cried,” I told her; and explained why. I asked where she had originally seen it. “My son sent it to me,” said she. “I think he got it on the Internet. I’m so sorry. Please give me your name and phone number, and I’ll certainly tell Ann.” I did. She did. Later that day, Ann Landers herself telephoned me to apologize, compliment me, and offer to print an attribution soon which would acknowledge my authorship of the article. She asked, “What else can I do for you?” I quipped, “Well, you could put in a good word for me with your syndicate; I’d love to write a regular humor column for them.” She chuckled. I didn’t bother explaining that I hadn’t meant my remark to be funny.

I then donned my detective hat and launched a cursory Internet search. Within minutes, I found my old lady on six different sites. I e-mailed the writers of the offending web pages. They responded with profuse compliments, apologies and offers to either remove the piece or attribute it to me. I chose the latter since the old lady was already running rampant through cyberspace anyway. Unfortunately, no one could lead me back to the culprit who originally kidnapped her. All of the sources I was able to identify had received it from someone, who had received it from someone else, ad infinitum. And each of these recipients apparently sent it to everyone they had ever known since pre-school. 

How was the old woman spirited away without my permission in the first place? Over the past year I had sent the article to a dozen publishers, all of whom declined my generous offer to allow them to pay me big bucks for it. I then sent it to my small hometown weekly, which was happy to print it (for no bucks). Did a reader scan it, without my byline, and start the whole distribution chain by e-mailing it to a friend who decided to share it with other cyber pals? Is that how my old lady got out the door without ever paying me for my hospitality?

My frustration mounted when another friend unearthed still another website which featured my unwelcome boarder. As I had with the other sites, I e-mailed the owner and asked if she could let me know where she first found it. Her reply: “I’ve had the piece, for about twenty years now, and I didn’t get it from the Internet.” Very interesting, especially since in the article I mentioned VCRs, which certainly weren’t prevalent twenty years ago, and—more important—ATMs, which didn’t exist back then. 

To add to the mystery, about a year ago the publishers of the “Chicken Soup for the Soul” books contacted me. They had seen my old woman somewhere (before she lost her I.D. papers tying her to me, apparently) and wanted permission to consider including her in one of their upcoming volumes. I have no idea where they discovered her and am now in the process of trying to track down their source.

It’s very disconcerting. Because of the Internet, the world has expanded exponentially. Consequently, keeping track of our brain children has become impossible.

By the way, it’s 11:00 PM. Do you know where your children (and old folks) are?

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--RM
(c)2000 by Rose Madeline Mula