My art I made through My constant curiosity Of what you would like And be impressed with

So why do you do The same with her Why did you have the nerve To stab me in the back

Author, James Marriot, has made 7 book series ever since he was 15. It took him 5 years to get through writing 2 series. It took him 15 years to gain some fame. No matter how popular he was, his books rarely sold.

On Amazon he found 1 copy of his book series that wasn’t his. It was $10 while his books sold for $15. It was his hard work being sold under someone else’s name and for cheaper.

James opened his notebook, “I am James Marriot. I am the original author of {book series} and no one else has written something like me,” he wrote.

He opened YouTube on his computer to find a video called, “Which author is the original; James Marriot drama?” As he watched them explain how the cheaper one could’ve been real. He sighed, “James Marriot is not the original, or is he?” He heard the woman say, “He is not. He’s just copying them and selling them for more. But you know. That’s just a theory! A book theory!” The woman theorized.

James took to YouTube to make his own video titled, “Proof I write my books; James Marriot drama” where he explained he does write his books. But no one believed him.

As he lost his fame and this plagiarized man took everything from him he realized he could just stop making books and stop the drama.

But oh boy that didn’t work. The next book this random man published was called, “Poor James.” Where it goes in great detail to explain James’ death.

“Read this.”

“Babe are you ok?”

“Just read this, please.”

After his insistence she read the the short story but was puzzled by it. She read it again. This was his story but he had revised it? But at the same time parts didn’t feel like him and she knew his writing well.

Not being able to contain his frustration any longer and registering his wife’s confusion he started to cry. He paced away from her to hid it, showing emotion was difficult for him. He had worked so hard at being a writer and just as he felt success someone was stealing that accomplishment from him. With his back turned to her he offered the reality she seemed to be avoiding, “it’s not me, but it is my story.”

She hugged him from behind before he could even finish the statement. She had followed him as he had turned his back to her. He hadn’t been able to hid his emotion after all. It was a tight hug. Not the romantic type hug from behind but an all encompassing hug, one that didn’t care for the direction but the intention. She was heartbroken for him and wanted to embrace him without delaying it or letting go. He no longer held back the tears. Nor did she, he felt his shirt become damp against her face. They eventually turned to face each other but kept the embrace.

After they had both sat with the heartbreak of the theft for long enough they began to sort it out. It had been his dream but their endeavor, he didn’t for a second think he could have done it without her. Overcoming this new obstacle would be no different than the last five years had been. They would figure this out together. After that embrace he was certain they would overcome their work being plagairized.

I was very proud of my accomplishment, I went from a weak writer, to an amazing author. My book, The Astounding Tails of Jimmy and Kevin, had become famous. People loved it, and I loved it to. Then, one day, I was searching for a new book to read on Amazon when I came upon a book called Jimmy and Me. I was shocked, some one had copied my book! It had the same main characters, Jimmy and Kevin, the only difference was that it was in first person. The imagery, the dialogue, everything was the same. So I took things seriously and write the author, ‘C.J. Pup? That pen name sounds familiar…’ I mumbled to my self as I write. A couple days later I got a response, here is was it said.

Dear Mrs. Kit, I am very flattered that you thought I was copying you, but the truth is, you copied me. I was thinking of reporting you but took pity on you and didn’t. Much Love, Mr. Pup.

I slammed my hands on my computer and decided to do something evil. ‘Click.Click.Click.’ I typed on the keyboard, it was time for “C.J. Pup” to get a taste of what real writings sounded like, and what real people thought…

My work That jerk Slow my heart I’ll never part With my words Now overheard Now stolen My beholden

A lil drabble inspired by my world literature class, and I think we referenced the book How to Read Literature Like a Professor. I would check for the author and verify this but I’m on a bit of a time crunch here.

The Epic of Gilgamesh was the first proof, as far as the modern world knows. A Mesopotamian story. It follows a plot mountain. It used literary devices. It teaches a moral. And then it was plagiarized. And every land, every town, every person plagiarized it. Including you.

Because Gilgamesh was plagiarized. From the stone tablets lost to time, and before that, the oral tales. They all taught something, had a storyline. And Gilgamesh copied that. And then The Aeneid, Oedipus the King (I love this play) and literally everything else. That story you have in your head? Plagiarized. There is no such thing as an original story, because every story requires inspiration, the author, consciously or not using some sort of narrative that they found entertaining in a book they read. The stories those isolated, developing tribes likely tell about the strange giant birds growling in the sky plagerize something they don’t know exists. With this logic, our thoughts are plagerized. But, we can still be unique. Because Gilgamesh found peace with his mortality, and Oedipus started a family with his mother. It just takes the infusion of all of these repeating themes to reach some sort of independence.

And thanks for attending my TedTalk lol

I know it happens to every big writer. But- I feel so betrayed. By the world, I guess. And I’m not used to being big. When my writing was small… I know I didn’t make much money… I had such a beautiful, supportive, community going on, and I never realized how much that meant. And how much I really needed that. I never said thank you. I know those people are still here, But now there are millions… Watching my community’s every move.

And I’m not used to people who don’t really care about my work.

Who don’t support me every step of the way.

I don’t know… Maybe… I miss being small.

White lights flash as Jax walks into, well anywhere, but on this particular day it was a movie premier. Enough security so that the paparazzi were stopped at the door. Jax three months ago was a nobody, just another struggling writer until he caught a break. The Noll Corporation, famous for their movies bought one of his scripts. They even invited him on set to help with the production, which wasn’t normal for the entertainment industry. The movie became a hit and suddenly Jax became famous. This premier was for another movie, A stone in time, about two star crossed lovers separated by time. The movie light up the screen and time passed by. It seemed as though Jax blinked and the applause occurred. After the movie people started to turn their phones back on, the sound of notifications echoed in the halls. Jax’s own phone started to go off as well. He took out the plain yet sleek black mobile and checked what was going on. To say he was shocked was an understatement. What he absolutely didn’t think would greet him would be post and hype about a new movie. That in of itself was not the worrying part. New movies with advertising were a dime a dozen. The concerning part was that the plot was something that Jax was familiar with, it had the exact plot and name of the script he had finished writing yesterday. Within that hallway he stopped walking. People flowed around him talking about the new movie. Jax looked on in a daze searching more in depth for who wrote the movie, or rather who stole his work. And wasn’t that the question, how did someone get their hands on his writing? Was it a bad coincidence?

With room temperature white table wine and orange cubes of cheddar, Mercury Bookstore was hosting its Spring Author Q&A followed by a book signing. Tonight’s author was Seattle Tribune star journalist Sam Jenkins, writer of One-Eyed Jacks, the Hunt to Find the Wayne City Sniper. Bookstore owner, Loretta King beamed in front of the rows of folding chairs. Shove that in your pipe and smoke it BookBusters, she thought smugly.

Sam Jenkins sat across from King trying desperately to not vomit. Sam didn’t like crowds. He really didn’t like speaking in public. His left knee started to shake. He knew he was a fraud.

Carrying a tray of more orange cubes of cheese and a crudite plate, store clerk Jessica kicked Von to remind him to play the gentle background music from Spotify. She refreshed the appetizer table trying to make the pitiful amount of snacks look classy. Mercedes, one of the bookshop regulars, grabbed a handful of crackers. Jessica groaned.

Loretta looked over at her guest. He looked petrified. She chuckled to herself. Authors often looked stricken before promo events. Loretta loved books, the weight of a thick paperback, the crisp of opening an unread hardback. Loretta pictured her ivory paper knife slicing uncut folio. Loretta loved books not writers. She was less of a fan of authors. Self-conscious Nervous Nellys, she said to herself and leaned towards Jenkins.

The author startled. Loretta patted his knee. Her voice purred.

“Only the dumb are perpetually confident. Many bright talented people have imposter syndrome, feeling undeserving. I’ve followed your articles, young man, I have read your book. Breathtaking, simply breathtaking. You deserved all of the wondrous things coming to you.”

Jenkins blanched. Shrugging, Loretta adjusted her Hermes scarf, crossed her legs, and leaned back into an elegant pose. A freelance photographer who did gigs from the local papers and news sites snapped photos of her. Frantically, Jenkins searched the crowd for the pr lady from Lynx Books. Carrie or Carly, Jenkins’ thoughts were scrambled. He had to get out of here.

More guests arrived. They mingled in the stacks and flocked the appetizer table. Jessica carried in four more folding chairs. She glared at Von drinking wine and chatting up some cute chick in Histories & Biographies.

Guests settled into their chairs. The appetizer table was a train wreck. Jessica scrubbed at her temples and reconsidered the clerk position at the new BookBusters. Loretta told a story about herself deguised as an amusing ancedote about independent bookstores. Jenkins looked for exits, willing his feet to move.

“I could talk about the striking prose and detailed research that went into covering the sniper that terrorized the Northwest for hours but I want to give our attendees a chance to ask questions,” Loretta said reaching an elegant hand towards the guests. The cute chick who had been talking to Von stood up.

“Shannon Crosby from Media WatchDog, considering this book is based on your Tribune articles that was based on plagiarized sections from USWeek, Seattle Post, the Tacoma Daily, and dozens of other news sources, off the record comments, and pure fabrication. Are you planning on re-releasing One-Eyed Jacks as fiction?” Crosby said, holding up her phone.

Bolting upright, Jenkins leapt from his chair, knocked over an older woman into the new releases, and ran out the shop’s front door.

“Fiction it is,” she said.

So it all starts with two buddies that are named Drake and Hendrix. They like to go on adventures together and travel the world. They also deal with a lot of drama and wildlife and they travel back to different places and they see different dinosaurs.