So I made a piece of art and sold it online. For fifty dollars. A wine bottle stuffed with strips of paper: a hand-written poem put through a shredder.
About a month later, I got an email. "That was the worst poem we ever read. We're sending it back. We'll expect a refund. Thanks, the Smiths"
The following Monday, a package arrived. A box full of broken glass and crumpled sheets of taped together paper strips. I put the box on a shelf in my closet.
A week later, I received a follow-up email. "Inquiring with regard to our anticipated refund. Please advise."
I sent a reply. "You never read Marmion?"
Half an hour later, the Smiths answered. "Okay. The second-worst poem we ever read. Please remit."
I responded. "Dear Smiths, I'm willing to confess that poetry isn't really my thing. But my intention wasn't actually to sell a poem, anyway. It could have been a grocery list. The artistry lay in shredding it and putting it in the bottle. Anyway, if you were that curious, you could have dug out the cork and fished out the paper with a wire hanger — no damage done. I really don't see how I owe you a refund. Best, Don"
The next morning, I found the Smiths' reply in my inbox. "While we're discussing proclivities, your fiction is derivative and overrated. Maybe that's not your thing, either? A grocery list would have been much better; at least it would have been ironic. That would have shown a touch of genius, in fact. We would have kept a grocery list. We would have adored a grocery list. We would have run to the store to buy every last item on a grocery list. As for digging out the cork and fishing out the paper with a hanger, that would have been a bit cowardly and a trifle dishonest. It would have been stealing, frankly. And we, sir, are more forthright than that. Now give back our money, Motherfucker!"
I was shocked. Derivative of whom? Over-rated by whom? I decided to stick with the first question, and I fired off an email. Of course I knew the answer, but I wanted to see if they did. I wanted to know if the Smiths had done their homework.
Just after noon, they sent a reply. "Don't patronize us, plebeian. We have MFAs in literary theory. We could teach you a thing or two about your own 'work.' Things you never even imagined. We not only recognize all the authors from whom you have deliberately stolen, we could name a dozen writers you've ripped off without even knowing it. We can identify novels you picked up in your youth, put down after reading the first chapter, forgot all about, and then, years later, remembered, vaguely, deluding yourself into thinking you had invented. But, alas, we digress. Give back our money!"
A week later, I was googling my name. At the bottom of page three was a heading: Don Hucks is an asshole. I followed the link.
Apparently the Smiths had started a website called Don Hucks is an asshole, conveniently residing at http://www.donhucksisanasshole.com. On the site, they enumerated my transgressions and alleged acts of plagiarism, and subjected selected examples of my writing to their exquisite academic derision. They had an associated blog, in which they invited their readers to share their own unsavory experiences with Don Hucks and/or his trifling literary efforts.
I showed the Smiths' site to my wife.
"Tell me the truth, Stace — is that the most heinous and diabolical thing you've ever seen in your entire life?"
"It is. Absolutely."
"I mean, it's not as bad as — I don't know — Darfur. Or Rwanda."
"Of course not. Or Burma. Or Tibet. Or the Balkans."
"Or Iraq."
"No."
"Or even, I suppose, the excesses of a corrupt and predatory financial system."
"Arguably."
"But, in the realm of things you've seen today... on the Internet... that have a direct bearing on me..."
"It's a provocation wrapped in an insult inside an injustice."
I confessed that, most probably, I was in fact an asshole. "But that isn't the point. These people don't even know me. I mean when Scott Ericson published that poem about what I douche-bag I am..."
"'Don Hucks is a Douche-Bag'."
"Right. I didn't even get that pissed off about it. I mean, first of all, it was a pretty decent poem."
"It was nominated for a Pushcart."
"And second, well, Scott and I have been friends a long time; so I figured he should know. But these fucking Smiths don't know me from F. Scott Fitzgerald."
"No. Of course they don't."
"And, please... the Smiths? Obviously a made-up name. A nom de guerre, I suppose."
Within a month, the Smiths' website was the first hit returned in a Google search of my name. The first hit. I hadn't minded so much when they were on page three — but the first fucking hit? I did a little investigating, and it soon became apparent that the Smiths, being a fierce and tech savvy bunch, had link-dropped to their site on a multitude of blogs and social networking sites — a classic search engine optimization technique.
Now, I didn't mind that they were harassing me via email, or that they possessed a more subtle understanding of my own work than I did, or even that they were mocking me in plain view of the World Wide Web. But if there's one thing I can't stand it's a link-whore.
