Then I moved to New York and started copying some of the more popular lifestyle bloggers. I splurged on a fancy camera and began posting “outfits of the day” and photos of my “meals” (in reality I only posted about 30 percent of what I actually ate, since the rest was popcorn and cheap wine). For more than a year, I diligently posted and received no engagement. I was discouraged, but it turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me. I stopped posting the things I thought I was supposed to post, and instead started posting the things I wanted to post: bizarre art installations, thrift store finds, my favorite hole-in-the-wall dim sum place.

And then I met Elle Nguyen, a top-tier fashion blogger, at the art gallery where I worked. We bonded over a series of mixed-media sculptures and our disdain for a particular D-list blogger who posted nothing but sponsored content. Elle took me under her wing, and she gave me a primer on best blogging practices, introduced me to some of her contacts, and, most important, linked to my blog in one of her posts.

My readership exploded overnight. No one was flying me to Milan, but I suddenly had offers of representation from management companies and an inbox full of emails from brand reps who wanted to work with me. I seriously considered quitting my job and devoting all my effort to becoming a major influencer—those girls could rake in some serious cash—but the idea of writing glorified ad copy drained my soul, and I couldn’t bring myself to give up a steady paycheck. I still believed I’d made the right decision. I’d stayed true to my vision and developed the engaged, loyal following that I craved—all without having to resort to shilling personal care products, like a not-small percentage of my blog friends.

I took another pull from the bottle and snickered. Swilling wine atop a half-made bed was hardly aspirational, but that was the magic of the internet: my followers saw only what I wanted them to see.

I was answering comments on my latest post when my buzzer rang, a wholly unpleasant sound that called to mind a dying cat. I made a mental note to ask Leanne if anything could be done about it and turned back to my phone. After all, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Someone must have hit my buzzer by mistake.

Scraaaaape.

I paused, tilting my head toward the sound. Was someone opening the gate outside my door? Fear shot through me as I remembered Cat’s warning about the alley, and I glanced uneasily at the curtainless window. I wrapped one hand firmly around the neck of the wine bottle and grasped my phone—unlocked and ready to dial 911—in the other, and then I eased off the bed. Just as I stepped into the living room, the front door swung open. I was already raising my makeshift weapon when I recognized the intruder as my upstairs neighbor and landlady’s grandson.