Conflict

A few weeks ago, I posted about a situation I was wrestling with in which I caught an individual plagiarizing some of my work.

It took three weeks, two e-mails, and a phone call, but I finally got hold of him this evening.

I kind of expected him to plead innocent, which he did, but then I figured when confronted with the indisputable facts, he would own up to his mistake and perhaps make some sort of lame excuse, like “I didn’t know it was copyrighted,” or “I must have gotten some of my notes mixed up in the final draft.”

Instead, he pulled a passive-aggressive routine that involved lying repeatedly and then playing stupid when I called bull on his prevarications.

I’ve never worked so hard to hold my tongue in my life, but by the grace of God, I managed to get through the entire conversation without dropping any f-bombs or making reference to any compost ingredients.

I kept my tone sweet as a Mason jar full of Mississippi iced tea, but I’m running out of options. If he’d just own up to his mistake, apologize for it, and say, “What do you think I should do to make it right?” I could offer him a way out that wouldn’t cost him anything or cause any hassles for either of us.

Instead, he insists on lying to me every chance he gets.

The thing is, I’m not mad at the guy. I feel sorry for him. I had sense enough to publish my book in very, very small lots so I wouldn’t lose my butt on it if it didn’t sell. He made the mistake of going through a publishing house and buying a whole bunch of books that are doomed to collect dust in his garage for all eternity, so he’s out a big chunk of money. If he’s smart, he’ll put the leftover copies in the basement during the next good rain, unplug the sump pump, and let his homeowner’s policy reimburse him for his printing costs.

But I can’t just let him off the hook. He did something dishonest, and he’s got to own up to it before I can offer him a way out.

I feel like the priest in The Exorcist, trying to coax that nasty-looking, trash-talking, pea-soup-spewing demon out of that innocent little girl. If the damned thing would just give up and come out of there, it would save us all a lot of drama. But instead, it seems to be so firmly entrenched that I’m afraid the process of prying it out is going to be the stuff horror movies are made of.

Emily