A Pariah by Any Other Name…

…is still screwed.

In February, I’ll have been writing on Medium for one year.

One year of struggling to create quality content, of clapping and highlighting and interacting and sharing. Damn. I’ve been busy!

So, why am I still making squat? Or, next to squat?

“It’s not about the money.” There. I got that out of the way. But, son of a bitch, sometimes it is. Sometimes, you want to be rewarded for your efforts.

I’ve noticed that the people who say “it’s not about the money,” are the very writers making the money. What’s up with this?

Admittedly, I’ve been lagging the last couple of weeks. Not publishing as frequently as I should, but dammit it all, life gets in the way. I may not be employed, but I have other commitments, like finishing a screenplay I’ve been working on for months. And, laundry.

I have over a thousand followers, which I’m very grateful for. Still, I’ve yet to receive one thousand claps for a story. While there is a plethora of great content on Medium that is deserving of all that glad-handing, I’ve seen an equal amount of shit receiving claps up the wazoo. Pun intended. Again, what’s up with this?

After bitching about how I’ve never been curated, to this date, approximately five of my stories have been curated. “Thank you, Medium Gods! Watch as I humbly and thankfully bow from the ankles!”

Screw that. I deserved it. And, I deserve to make more money than I have been. That said, how do I get to the bottom of this conundrum?

I’ve looked over my stories, and yes, they run the gamut. Is there something wrong with this? I write whatever is on my mind at any particular time. My brain races with thoughts that run hither and yon and I have to make a concerted to yank them out before they disappear in the abyss.

Lots of stuff. That’s what I think about. All the freakin’ time. Should I pick a topic and stick to it? Like sex? Currently, that would be akin to writing about what it’s like to be a fighter pilot.

Or, if not sex, then weight? Let’s be honest: That particular topic seems to be the elephant in Medium’s room. Yes, it’s fascinating because so many people struggle with body confidence, but, when is it time to move on and spread one’s wings?

Should I be a one-trick pony? Maybe I’ll write, “The Skinny on Being Skinny.” Or, “Why Eat When I Can Drink?”

Am I too opinionated? Has speaking my mind turned me into a Medium pariah? So many questions.

Yes. I’m envious. But, not in a malicious way, because I love and admire the majority of my fellow writers. Rather, I feel like someone who has been repeatedly “dismissed” for months. First, from my job, then, from any efforts to find another job, next, from the very production companies who vow that they’re committed to making films “by and for, women,” and finally, I feel dismissed by Medium. Sort of, anyway.

“Woe is me?” Fuck that. Honestly. I’m not down with that, so I hope this piece doesn’t convey self-pity. Instead, think of me as a curious bystander to my own life. Watching, one arm outstretched, as I float by on a sea of nothingness, bobbing like a weightless cork. Adrift, in open water, trying to find that anchor. You know the one: The anchor that will tell me who I am and who I should aspire to be. I thought I knew.

I guess that’s the point of this story: To connect with those of you who might be feeling as aimless as I am, right now. Aimless, and without purpose. If so, join me, my friends. We will raise a glass to “fuck all,” as the Brits say.

As I float by, the sun hot on my face, my dreams a mirage, I reach out…eagerly grasping at me…trying to save me. If I don’t, who will?

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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