What I Write is Mine, Isn't It? Blogging, Intellectual Property, and Identity

Hello my name is Rachael and I used to write at CrankMama. I started CrankMama on a lark in August 2006, wanting an outlet for all my naughty dark lusty and sassy mama thoughts. I was dying for somewhere to express the millions of ways I was not, could not ever be Donna Reed, could not ever *not* swear around my kids, cook a reasonably tasty meal, stay at home without meaningful work, give up a fabulous sex life, leave aside 100% of my own ego for my children. I was drowning in spiritual suburbia, and CrankMama was my express train to midtown Manhattan with a pocket full of cash and a brain full of daring.

My computer, anthropomorphized and worshipped, cuddled more than my husband, was my instrument of adventurous warfare on vanilla mommyhood everywhere. My solution for sleepless worry, my nascent feminism and amorous curiosities found an outlet.

As it grew bigger, I became known (albeit only to a few) as CrankMama, which was perfectly fine with me, and this persona of a sassy, shit-kicking potty-mouthed mama developed, at once more than and less than me.

But here's the rub (and the clumsy hard, repetitive kind without lube), like many women writers, I lacked confidence in my abilities as a writer. I was comfortable "only" being a blogger because it seemed so much less risky than claiming to be a writer (if you say you're a writer and they ask where and you say "a blog" you just sit there waiting for the laughter). I was chicken. I was shucking and jiving the sisterhood I claimed to defend.

So I partnered with two other women. One would design the site, one would figure out the technical end of things (this was before I realized that Wordpress is as easy to use as a call girls' black book to find a Republican Senator).

One year later, the partners began requiring more and more meetings, discussion of products, and finally a contest about which I just couldn’t get lubed up. Now I like some beautiful men and I like some sweet creative contests. I also love objectifying men because it’s a reversal of power that is so delicious it belongs in a pie. But I did not love this contest at all.

And besides, after a year of all of this, I had become a writer. I was willing to hold my head up (even while superstitiously crossing fingers behind my back) and say out loud "I'm a writer. I write at CrankMama." And what I wrote there was powerful (for me), personal, full of confession, love and adoration, and stories of my children.

And this personal thing wasn’t business enough for my partners. Too personal, too connected with me as a person and on from there. It took only a couple of silly tear-filled (mine) meetings for me to realize that life is too short to fight over a blog.

So rather than stay and fight I left. And started Redsy.

Do I have any rights over all the material I wrote during that 12 months? According to my former partners, my rights aren't exclusive. I partnered with them on a venture that morphed into quite something more than I bargained for. But surely this is how these things often happen? They change beyond recognition and certain of the original founders want out? Who keeps the goods when the shop changes hands?

More importantly (and apropos to BlogHer last week) am I still CrankMama?

The problems of intellectual property are complex because how does one begin to define what is one's own idea? Ones own material? If I had stayed and fought it out, I would have had a strong argument. I wrote every single post for a year.

But what does it mean when someone doesn't steal your property exactly because you gave it to them at first and then wanted it back?

The deeper issues here are those related to the trouble (and glory) involved with being a woman, a mother, an artist, a writer. "Who am I?" easily morphs into "What am I worth?"

If you came to me and described that someone was keeping your website up that you had written and was attempting to cash in on your efforts, I'd hop a plane and meet you in a pub, scratch pad in hand ready to write-out our fighting script. I’d hold up signs that say “Let’s get those fuckers!” I’d put your head in my lap and pet you to sleep. But I just can’t fight that way for myself. I can’t. And I’m no shrinking Violet.

What we create on our blogs is our own intellectual property. But if it's personal and political and confessional and confrontational, if it's from our hearts, it is so difficult to fight it out. Like splitting a child in two or staying to watch one of those horrid bullfights to the end. I'm too inside the whole thing. It's too personal.

So this is what I’ll do. I’ll weave a tale, share my story. And as a result, this burden will blow away on the wind. And you can build me some lovely voodoo dolls, and we can share a drink and a laugh. And all will be well again.