You may or may not be aware of a certain Ukrainian Web site that was ripping off content from several bloggers (Velvet in Dupont , The Countdown of V, I Am Therefore I Date to name a few) in the form of our RSS feeds. I'm not linking to the site, but you can read about this little international blogging incident as it has been covered by ASAP, the Associated Press wire focused more on younger readers.
The Ukrainian site has changed its tactics, now only posting the beginning of our posts and linking back to our blogs. Originally it was reposting all of our entries, listing us as its contributors, posting a Creative Commons license on all pages and plastering the place with Google ads. We complained in comments which have since been deleted. (They say they were deleted for our "bad" language, but there's a comment up there with cursing in it that did get through, so they basically are just being jerks.) Oh! And the person who runs the site? Definitely NOT a woman, despite what the site would have you believe. And he's refused to e-mail me back, even though I've sent numerous comments, e-mails and complaints.
But what are you going to do? Short of suing this Ukrainian guy, I've kind of run out of options. Now everything is moderated (except the function that allows their readers to rate MY work) and I can't even comment on my own work. I am not happy, but things are better than they were. Effectively, this site was making money off of my journal, my hopes and fears, my moments of glory and fleeting flashes of brilliance and the lower times, when people fall short of my expectations.
I don't have ads here for a reason. I toyed with it a few months ago, but I see this as my little place where I quietly weave my life's story (or a portion of it), with input from my readers. I'm just not ready to see a text ad for caller ID every time I write about a boy not calling. Not now. Not yet.
This isn't my first bout with plagiarism and I'm sure it won't be my last. They say this sort of thing is supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery, but I feel less flattered and more frustrated each time it happens. After awhile you start to wonder if it is worth it.
For now, it is.