CHLOE WINSTON, THE fantasy author who was mercilessly attacked by trolls, is a little younger than I am, with a full, unlined face and noticeably perfect teeth. But there’s a hardness to her. She wears her damage in her eyes, in the set of her jaw. Her face is that of a survivor. And it is now filling my computer screen.
I’d reached out to Zoe Carpenter—we’ve kept in touch since the Miami writers’ festival—to ask a favor. I wanted to speak to Chloe, to compare our experiences as writers dealing with trolls and haters. Would Chloe Winston speak with me, did Zoe think? My friend had agreed to connect with her, to explain my situation, and Chloe had agreed to a video call.
After brief introductions, Chloe cuts to the chase. “Zoe says the trolls are after you.”
I tell her about the reviews, the emails, and the comments. I tell her about the flowers, the mysterious drink, and the disgusting message to Felix.
“Wow. It crossed into your real life so quickly. Did you antagonize them?”
“I was advised not to respond, so I’ve said nothing.”
“For me, it didn’t get really bad until I fought back.”
Zoe had told me about Chloe’s literary downfall, but I need more. “Can you tell me?” I plead gently.
She takes a fortifying breath. “A writer on Twitter accused me of plagiarizing his unpublished manuscript. He’d posted it in a few online workshops and on some lit-sharing websites. He said I must have found it online and copied it.” She shakes her head. “There was no merit to it. I should have ignored it. But I was pissed. I spent years writing that book. Every goddamn word was mine, and I wanted to own it.”
“What did you do?”
“I called this guy jealous and bitter and entitled on Twitter. I screenshotted the angry messages he’d sent me, and I posted them. I wanted people to see that he was a ranting, irrational jerk. But it backfired.”
“That’s when the trolls came after you?”
“Yeah. They accused me of stealing this guy’s story. They said he’d been rejected by publishers because he was a white male. They claimed I only got a publishing deal because I’m a BIPOC woman. It was total digilantism.”
“What’s that?”
“Online vigilantism.” Chloe takes a drink from a glass of water beside her computer. “There was one troll in particular, a guy who went by Creeper98. He was part of a collective of guys who work together to destroy people online.”
“They’re organized?”
“Yeah. There are international trolling syndicates that plan coordinated attacks to get people fired, get them to quit the internet, even drive them to kill themselves.”
“God…”
“The online abuse is bad, but when it seeps into your real life, it’s unbearable.” Her face darkens. “I was doxed.” The term is only vaguely familiar to me, but Chloe explains. “They published my home address on Twitter and Reddit, and in their online troll communities. Somehow they got my mom’s address, too. People threw bottles at my house, and fruit, and dog shit. They harassed my mom when she went to get groceries. She had to go stay with my aunt for a while. Sometimes a car would sit outside my house all night, just watching me.”
“That’s awful, Chloe.”
“I was swatted, too.”
I’ve heard of this practice, where an anonymous caller sends the police to an address claiming there are guns inside, a hostage situation, or another serious crime in progress.
“They kicked in my door with guns drawn. I was handcuffed and taken into custody. As a Black woman, it was especially terrifying.”
I can scarcely imagine her fear, the very real risk to her life.
“I handled it all wrong.” She sighs, shifts in her chair. “You can’t fight these people online. A reaction is what they want.”
“So what should I do?” I ask, the futility of my situation pressing down on me. “I’ve given them nothing, but my trolls won’t go away. Should I just let them ruin my career when it’s barely started? Let them attack my friends and destroy my relationships?”
Chloe sighs. “Maybe you could reach out to this Ingrid woman privately? Reason with her on a personal level?”
“That goes against everything I’ve been told to do.”
“I don’t know, Camryn.” She takes another sip of water. “If I could do it over again, I wouldn’t fight. I’d try to make them see that there’s a real person with real feelings on the receiving end of all the hatred.”
“Do you think that would have worked?”
“It might have. I’ve done a lot of reading about this. Some trolls are psychopaths who love to inflict pain. Others are narcissists who think their actions are justified. But a lot of them are in pain themselves. They’re lashing out online because they’re lonely and isolated. Or they have mental health issues, or substance abuse problems. Maybe Ingrid is suffering, too?”
“That’s a very compassionate point of view,” I say, a remarkably un-compassionate edge to my voice. “You’ve lost so much because of the haters.”
“I’ve had a lot of therapy,” Chloe says. “I’m working on forgiveness. But I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD from the experience. Other than my father dying, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever gone through.”
I thank her for talking to me, a virtual stranger, about something so painful, and we wrap up our call. But she leaves me with one last thought.
“I still just really want to know why,” Chloe says. “What did they get out of it? Are they happy they destroyed me? And why me?”
It is the question that runs through my mind when I should be sleeping, writing, spending time with my boyfriend or my daughter: Why me?