Writing for the Interwebs: The Perfect Way to Watch your Work Disappear Forever

 Readers of this blog know I have published both fiction and non-fiction, much of the latter online. There is an accepted axiom in today's culture that "the internet is forever" but that's only true if some third party decides to take a screenshot of your work. At least, in some cases. Sometimes that person is me, but more often than not, I don't bother and my work vanishes into the ether from whence it came.

I first realized the internet was not forever when a website I'd written dozens of articles for suddenly decided to shut down and gave all of is "content generators" thirty days to grab our shit and go. In the virtual world, that equates to finding ways to screenshot all of your work before it is unceremoniously wiped from all existence.

That's not to say that print is forever, but I've reached the conclusion that there is more of a likelihood that some physical copy of one's work will still be out there somewhere. 

What prompted this, you ask? Lately I've been listening to an audiobook about Robin Williams' life and tragic demise. When he died, I was writing for the now defunct The Movie Network, whose editors encouraged every single writer to flood them with Williams articles. It was that rare moment when repetition was desired and most of us rose to the challenge. And it was a challenge.

Having anticipated that every other writer working for the site would come up with some "What Robin Williams meant to me" article, I decided to watch the movie everyone was relating to his apparent suicide, "Father of the Year." I used my review of the film (Spoiler alert: I thought it was brilliant!) as a way of talking about my own father, whose adoration of Williams had been a strong influence on my childhood. I realized rather quickly that losing Robin Williams felt like losing my dad all over again, a mixed, jumbled torrent of conflicting emotions and uncertainties once more manifesting themselves in my mind. I was older now and better equipped to handle it, but it was no less significant.

I poured everything I had into that piece and while I was paid for it, I wrote it because I had no choice. These were thoughts and feelings I had to express or risk going mad(der). I considered it one of the better things I wrote for them, and I wrote over 200 articles for them in a six month period. Don't worry. I was well-compensated. I know you were worried. But more importantly, I was pleased enough with my body of work with them, the film reviews in particular, to guide readers to them even after several of us were unceremoniously and without warning, no longer needed.

The articles remained up for years and I suppose I gave into a false sense of eternity. How easily that sense is dispelled, however, for it is gone, gone, gone. Not just the article, mind you. The website itself. Gone as if it has never existed. I don't even have an original copy of the review; my fault entirely. I am often rather lazy when it comes to my non-fiction. 

My fiction has fared better in the longevity department, but it was particularly painful when the entire website that supported one of my high water marks in the writing world vanished seemingly forever. Voluted Tales, which published six issues of my beloved "The Darkness Internal" is, alas, no more. Most of the issues featured the works of other authors but I wrote an editorial for every issue. I also conducted all of the author interviews...HEY! More lost non-fiction! See how that works?

It hurts to know so much of my work will never be read again. That doesn't mean I won't continue to have stuff published online, however. There really isn't much of a choice to be had these days, but I will hopefully be a bit smarter about preserving my work in the future.