I’ve been a freelance writer for years. During that time, I’ve put my all into decent work that has appeared under my byline. But despite researching and writing and fact-checking and interviewing for an incalculable number of hours, my freelance work just doesn’t raise enough money to live in a big city. In order to make my freelance work financially viable, I spend half my time writing things that are worthwhile, and the other half prostituting myself out in the name of fake news.

I know it’s shameful. For every article I’ve written that is worthy of an audience, I’ve produced five that make me feel like stabbing myself in the eye with a large pointed instrument. I can’t look at them now. At the time, I rationalized all this by telling myself that my fake news was a drop in the ocean and wouldn’t make a difference. That I was just doing this to get by, that it was enabling me financially so I could write about issues I found important.

Looking back, that was a pompous contradiction. But, hey, it helped me look at myself in the mirror in the morning.

There are very obvious reasons why sites propagate fake news, including political gain or to further a hateful agenda. But a major motivator is also advertising, which is pervasive, powerful, and controls a large amount of the media content that populates our news feeds. Clickbait sites want as many eyeballs as possible, because they get paid for each display ad on the page next to the story. But commercial sponsors and advertisers can distort editorial in much more pernicious ways — and this has been going on for as long as we have had a public media.

A major music magazine asked me to interview a commercial EDM DJ and review a rave he was lending his name to. The publicists insisted on Relentlessly describing the rave as “underground,” despite the fact that it had a big fat commercial sponsor in the form of an energy drink, which isn’t exactly Spiral Tribe, is it?

I went. The event was a cattle market with no room to dance, a hostile atmosphere, and 80 percent of the revelers were incessantly documenting the scene for social media. I contacted the editor and asked him if this was a sponsored piece of content. He replied, “No — just write an honest review.”

This wealthy man had an army of PR professionals aggressively patrolling his interests and his brand.

Before I filed, I was repeatedly harangued by the publicity agents who wanted to see the article before it was submitted; that’s an absolute no for any self-respecting journalist, because they are basically asking for copy approval. I was repeatedly reminded what I had to include and how it should be written, and they helpfully offered to look at my article and “make suggestions.” Again: No, fuck off.

The DJ’s personal publicist “prescreened” me for an hour before I could do the interview. Then he kept me waiting eight hours for the interview to start. And then he postponed it. Four times. I eventually managed to interview him on the phone instead. I filed. I did not write good things about the “underground rave.” I’m used to hassle from publicists and tried to be objective despite their bullshit.

And lo, when the article did come out, it didn’t look like my work at all. It was heavily edited. Whole paragraphs were added, my opinion subverted, and the final version even claimed — in words that seemed to come straight from the rep’s mouth — that this was the best event of the year.

His reps, evidently, had gotten to someone somewhere along the line. This wealthy man had an army of PR professionals aggressively patrolling his interests and his brand. And I later realized that this DJ buys so much advertising space that he effectively edits the magazine.