Plagiarism, poinsettas, and pointlessness

2002-12-28 - 6:09 a.m.

Good Lord, I'm bored.

But I'm also wanting to write things...a shwack of verbal vomit coming up....

First of all, why in Pete's name would someone call to get a membership with us on his credit card and not have the card ready? By "ready" I mean in the same room. There have been so many times that a potential customer is surprised that we need his credit card number to ring through a purchase on his card. Yeesh.

Second of all...getting plagiarized is weird. It has me, on some level, completely screwed up, mentally. It was really strange to see my words twisted on someone else's page...my thoughts and expositions and experiences plasterted onto someone else's life. It's affected me on this really deep level, and suddenly I want -all- plagiarists to suffer from the Norwalk virus. I never really felt that strongly about it, especially in cases where there's no money involved, but having it actually -happen-...I think it must be like when someone breaks into your house: you don't miss the cd player and the computer as much as you miss the perceived safety and freedom.

Oo, look! A topic!

I think that this is the first time that I've actually felt like my creations were property. I've felt proud or protective, sure, but more in a naive "look what I did! Please like it!" way. Now...now it's like I -own- this stuff that I put out. Whether it's good or bad, important or not, right or wrong, it's mine. My writing is as real to me as diamonds...and that's not a good thing.

It was better, in a way, to not care that I'm putting stuff out there. I like the idea of just anyone being able to read my stuff, that I'm helping to enrich some commonly-owned tapestry in my own small way. I -like- thinking that my intellectual property is property in name only...that -anyone- can have my ideas and use them as they want to.

But really, no, you can't. I want to hold them close and say "Mine!" It's such a basic emotion, like the way babies will automatically grab a finger. I'm okay with sharing ideas, but now I want credit. Don't take my words and put your face on them. It's rude.

So intellectually I'm able to sort of chuckle. I can remind myself that I should be flattered that this girl thought my writing was special enough to want to use as her own, I can remind myself that these ideas aren't bringing me any money, so what's the harm? And I get on with my life, because really, with perspective, diaryland is just...a diary. Personal, yes, but not the be-all and end-all of my life.

And I still keep coming back to it.

I wonder if maybe part of the problem is that I don't understand it at all. People have trouble seeing their own ability to create: there are doodlers who will never believe they can draw or paint, there are people who sculpt with their mashed potatoes but will never, ever touch clay, there are shower-singers and seat-dancers who will never explore the beauty of exhibition. And there are writers who can feel that need, that desire to write but will never believe that -their- words are good enough. Maybe this girl had so much to express, but she couldn't trust herself to say it?

If that's the case...I don't know. I guess that's just sad. I wonder how much richer her diary might have been if she had used her own words: instead of one way of seeing and saying things, there would be two...and when I talked about diversity (in one of the entries she stole from) I talked about how important difference is. That applies to writing, too.

Of course, all that high-minded thinking aside, I know I'm just upset because I'm being selfish. Whatever praise, or criticism, there is for my words, I want it to come to -me-. It's not just the words that I want, it's what comes with them. I want to own the ripples that they send out, I want to be the recipient of their work, for good or for ill.

Alright, that's enough of that. To continue (and end) with the rambly, verbal-vomit theme, I've discovered the owner of the poinsetta, and it seems like the plant is being cared for now. Which makes me really sad...I keep wanting to water it, but now whenever I come in to work it's already been cared for. There's nothing left for me to do. At least it's healthy again. No one said being a parent to an office poinsetta was easy, I guess.

Cheers,

The Magus

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