Humor
How and Why I Came Out as A Medium Curator
It looked like a model Medium family until…
I grew up in a Medium family — my father is editor-in-chief of a small Medium publication and my mother is a writer for Medium.
My father’s publication is called +PLUS+. It deals mainly with philosophical ramblings (rumblings) and hopes to improve readers’ lives. +PLUS+ stands for “Philosophical Life Uplifts [and] Sustains.” A noble aim no doubt, but my father is not really the man for the job.
My mother’s pen name on Medium has always been Ms.Writer. She’s a miss-writer if you see what I mean. Her fiction efforts never have a compelling plot — there doesn’t seem to be a plot at all. She generally writes “poetry” and flash fiction with an occasional writing improvement lesson or meditation mantras for budding writers on the platform.
When they married, they promised faithfully not to tread on each other’s pens. My mother would never submit to +PLUS+ and my father would never invite my mother to be a writer for his pub.
It seemed to work and they were a Mediumly happy couple.
As I reached adolescence, I kept on hearing about the Holy Grail of Curation. This was the wonderful treasure cup which would guarantee happiness and wealth for writers and editors for the rest of their lives. My Mom and Dad talked about it all the time. Curation meant acceptance, forgiveness, salvation, and eternal life.
Curation matters.
My Dad’s writers were never or rarely curated which meant that the number of followers on +PLUS+ never exceeded 90. The knock-on effect was that it was excruciatingly difficult to find writers. Who wants to write for a pub with 80 or 90 followers?
These were the comments I heard all the time:-
“My piece was absolutely perfect and they will never curate it — fed up with hanging tight.”
“My writer’s piece was thoughtful, compelling, and had the perfect introduction and final thoughts but again, not accepted.
“I don’t think these curators even bother to read the stories — they just feed the bots with the algorithms.”
Once I reached the age of eighteen, I found I had a great talent for editing and understanding what readers really want. I could spot a winning title, brilliant layout, subtle subtitles, and stellar format like a pro. I never looked at my parents’ efforts because they made me feel nauseous.
Then one day I saw the ad from Medium who were looking for curators. I applied and got the job!
I was now a Medium curator but could never tell my Mom and Dad because they might kill me. I had become one of those devilish and hideous creatures paid by Medium to do nothing but twiddle their thumbs.
I told them I was working as an editor for a well-known publisher and my parents never interfered. I always made sure my browsing history was in privacy mode and deleted cookies. They were really too fanatical about Medium to bother me so I was free.
I enjoyed my work as a Medium curator. I was reading some brilliant stories and I felt happy and fulfilled. My high ethical and moral standards had found a home. I was giving promising writers a chance to get read. I felt I had a really bright future.
The only problem was that I could not remain in the closet forever. My parents’ remarks were becoming more and more hostile to my peers. These included me! I felt increasingly uncomfortable with the yawning distance between us.
Frequent insults and belittling curators were becoming unbearable. My own self-esteem was suffering.
How could I remain silent?
When I told them that I had something important to tell them, they said:-
“You’re not gay, are you?
“ No, I am a Medium curator.”
They exploded.
“I’ll pay for conversion therapy,” my father shouted.
My mother fainted.
There was no choice but to pack my bags and computer. I had to leave home. A year has passed and I am now in an open relationship with a Medium writer and a successful editor. I am so glad I came out as a Medium curator. We are all very happy.
The next time you are not curated, just remember my story. Curators are human too.
Other stories I have written:-
