It’s funny how the universe works sometimes. I’d intended to write a post about the increasing slipperiness of time in a world moving toward greater technological density. But just as I began drafting it, something happened that brought me into awareness of another uncomfortable information age reality that hit much closer to home.
An editor claiming to represent a small but reputable east coast press sent an email query about my work. They knew about my book of literary criticism; they also knew I was working on a memoir. Your non-fiction work is just what our press is looking for, they said. I’d received enough “offers” from people looking to “help” grow my audience to suspect all was not what it seemed. They praised and they cajoled; but I had no need of a marketer and no need for the scam I knew was behind the emails. What a waste of intelligence and good writing skills, I’d say as I deleted the messages.
This email seemed a little different, enough so to almost seem plausible. There was a picture attached to the sender’s email address that really *was* of the person they claimed to be. And the writer knew where the editor had worked, what they had accomplished and where their intellectual interests lay. They also appeared to have done their homework on me and my one published book. The subject matter, post-colonial studies, just happened to be within that editor’s wheelhouse.
But there were a few small inconsistencies, small enough to be overlooked by a writer eager for industry validation. The email didn’t come from the publisher’s domain but did include it in the local, before-the-@-sign part of the email. A quick online check of the editor referenced showed that he had left the press mentioned in late 2024. My mystery interlocutor had also not included a website link to the publisher in his e-signature.
I was still curious, especially regarding how they had managed to find my email. So I wrote back a cautious reply to see whether they would reveal more about themselves and how they located me. Neither of those details were forthcoming. Instead, they kept the spotlight on me and asked for a brief summary of the memoir and book chapters or, if I was comfortable, the whole manuscript. And what timeline for completion did I have in mind?
It was deflection disguised as interest. Suspicion intact, I sent a brief overview and link to a portion of the MS that had been published by an online magazine, and they responded quickly: another giveaway. Most editors and agents I have ever dealt with are notoriously slow. They wanted to make sure “a writer of my standing” could connect an agent in the “strong network” they had developed. Their “offer” pushed all the right buttons. They were engaging in rhetorical seduction meant to bypass logic and cut straight to emotion and ego. What they said was smooth enough that it even gave my (legitimate) book editor, herself a savvy and accomplished writer, pause.
Of course it was a ruse. The stock phrases, the way they mirrored anything I said about my work back to me gave them away long before the publisher, whom I’d immediately contacted after I received the email, wrote back to tell me to discard the email. I hadn’t lost anything but time spent on responding to the impersonator’s emails. I’d just been spear-phished by a skilled scammer: someone had found my email, gathered information about me, then tailored an approach to exploit a possible connection for information and/or money.
Writers aren’t the most monied targets but we are plentiful in number. Like most creative endeavors, writing is high barrier/low. What that means for those of us who pursue that path is that getting work published is extremely difficult. That kind of scarcity creates hunger among people who yearn for a chance to be seen and appreciated. And where hunger exists, so does the possibility for exploitation.
Knowing these things didn’t fulfill my wish to understand motivation. What would make someone want to target writers for schemes that earn relatively little money—as through “editing” or “marketing” fees—for the effort involved? I put the question to ChatGPT, which offered several reasons: a penchant for manipulation, lack of empathy/ethics, fantasies of being a literary “influencer.” On the practical side, publishing is a decentralized activity with no licensing body exists for small presses or agents. Bad actors can get away with more—and more easily—than might otherwise be possible in more regulated industries.
The one question that will never get definitively answered is how the “editor” who targeted me got my contact information. ChatGPT suggested it may have happened through some type of data breach. Leaks could have occurred on a writing-related website I’ve visited in the past. Or via emails associated with journals that do not use secured platforms to gather submissions. It’s the age we live in. Nothing—including secured platforms—is ever without risk of getting compromised.
And yet there was still an odd sense of satisfaction in the exchange and not just from the fact I “survived” an online attack on privacy. While the spear phishing “editor” tried to play me for information, I was also playing them. It irks me that they did manage to take some of my time. But I’d rather lose a few hours to understand a would-be information age thief than all the years I invested in a manuscript that is the fullest expressions of who I am.