I’m being waylaid in courtroom corners when I’m not being harangued by phone callers, asking me whether I am Franco Debono’s ghostwriter. And inundated with in earnest text messages, wanting to know if I am following the latest ghost story, which points to me being Debono’s new and grammatically improved pen. Thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t take any credit for it.

I avoid blogs, perhaps for the same reason I avoid the theatre- Michela Spiteri

Still, I’m enjoying all the attention and could get used to it. I’m tempted to spray paint my toga white and wear it to court over my head, holding nothing but a pen in my hand, furtively lurking in Debono’s shadow, hanging onto his every word. I hope Satiristan are taking notes. I wouldn’t be averse to featuring in their next bill-board. I reckon I’ve earned it.

Some people take great offence when accused of doing something they have not done or played any part in. I suppose it can be mildly frustrating, more so in a place like Malta, where shooting from the hip is a national pastime, people are lazy, small-minded and thrive on hearsay. But it can also be quite entertaining if you decide to go with it and enjoy the (ghost)ride.

Call me unusual, but there have been times when I probably derived an odd sort of pleasure in being the butt of unfounded and untrue accusations. In retrospect, I have probably lived my whole life deliberately doing just that. Giving people ample room to speculate and draw their erroneous conclusions, even providing them with ammunition to use against me, when none was ever warranted or justified.

And this, in a society where quite the opposite usually happens – where people who really do get up to no good, will outwardly assume a quiet, self-righteous dignity, and accuse you of things they are doing or have done – a form of psychological projection.

I am not really sure why or wherefore. Maybe it’s the proverbial Wilde streak – Oscar’s not my own – that says it is infinitely better to be talked about than not to be. But it’s more than that. It bestows on one an almost moral superiority, not to mention the enormous satisfaction that comes with blissful unawareness.

That while you are happily going about your own life oblivious to, unconcerned with and largely uncurious about other people’s, they, evidently desperately bored and unhappy with theirs, are taking great pains to come up with aliases online, that will enable them to take a jibe at you while hiding behind a variation of Blanched Almond, Chinese Jar AB, X, Y or Z. Who will deliberately misspell your first name or otherwise compromise their natural propensity towards flawless grammar, syntax or punctuation in a feeble attempt to camouflage their true identity.

If I told you I hardly ever read any of the local or other blogs, it probably won’t wash. It’d most likely sound incredible or like I protest too much. Being something of a writer myself, you’d think I did. I don’t. There is no other or better way of saying it. I avoid blogs, perhaps for the same reason I avoid the theatre.

The theatre reminds me that I really wanted to be on stage and that I effectively put a career or life that I wanted into the mincer. Other people’s blogs remind me that I should be writing more and that I am postponing or shelving something else I’ve always wanted to do. Because, if I had the time to read other people’s blogs, then surely I could make the time to write my own.

That said, every time my name is mentioned in a blog, I am immediately alerted and the information relayed to me instantly. The wonders of internet technology.

People who believe Debono has a ghost writer possibly betray an acute misunderstanding of this particular individual. Apart from his inimitable Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde DNA, Debono is far too self-important and self-absorbed to ever imagine he might need a ghost-writer, which is tantamount to taking correction and an admission that someone else could do a better job.

Debono can’t handle criticism or correction, which is what a ghost-writer ultimately represents. Moreover, he possesses that wonderful, albeit dangerous gene – an inordinate superiority of conviction coupled with a complete lack of self-doubt, which makes for the most fool-proof anaesthetic.

People who believe I am ghost-writing for Debono demonstrate an obvious inability to recognise my writing style and betray an acute misunderstanding of my character and personality, which isn’t given to hiding or sneaking around. If I were Debono’s or even Al-Qaeda’s mouthpiece, everyone would know because I would tell them. Last I checked, ghost-writers in Malta were commonplace. Debono’s perfectly entitled to one, as are the rest of them.

So why the hoohah? Are people so starved of things to do here? Are their lives that unimpressive that they must resort to ridiculous guessing games in the hopes of winning some virtual prize offering, while engaging in deep and profound analysis that goes something like this: Once upon a time Michela Spiteri wrote a couple of articles in Debono’s defence. She’s definitely not a PN groupie. Then she must be the hidden hand.

So to answer my mother’s question, “Why on earth would they make stuff up about you?” My reply, like British Journalist Krissi Murison’s before me, who was similarly targeted, for different reasons, is “Oh, Mother, if only you knew...”

That when you criticise the PN, or when you simply don’t fawn over them, sooner or later you, and others close to you, will be targeted, by a handful of their anonymous and not so anonymous ghostwriters, oratorical trolls and insufferable groupies capable of irritating even the most converted.

Who eventually have to resort to poison, untruths and insidious misconduct in an attempt to annoy you or get you to stop. It’s a slow trickle. A modern day, online and virtual Chinese torture to match the Chinese Jar.

michelaspiteri@gmail.com