I Kissed Off Medium And I Liked It.

Hope my inner critic, aka Kate Perry, won’t mind it.

I was once a contributor to Medium. I had side-stepped my novel and began chasing the ‘Medium Dream’ (that in itself sounds like a compromise).

In the early days, scant recognition stumbled forward and like a drunk rattling the tavern doors I craved access to the treasures within. A fawning, pigeon-toed, crest-fallen mouse I loathed the John Travolta moves of the big writers. Like the ground hog, I saw my shadow and sprinted to my hollow.

I wonder, now, after a mere three weeks, if my winter of discontent has ended? I think not, but I am seeing other shadows on the periphery. These ghostly wafting images are also questioning the direction and value of playing the “Medium Game.”

Am I a hypocrite for writing this derisory article while assuming it will bring some meager financial reward? Probably.

In defence of my sabbatical though, I have realized a few haunting truths of the platform.

1. Medium is primarily for those who strive to be journalists, purveyors of opinion. They want their voices heard.
2. Medium (excluding poets) is not a stomping ground for those who wish to lavish readers with a kaliedescope of fiction. Medium readers predominantly want answers and solutions. No research data to support this just a fuzzy fear.
3. The fare on offer to me as selected by Medium is full of abbreviated listicles. (Is that even deemed to be a word? (it is) It rhymes with popsicles, testicles and receptacles — don’t go there.)
4. Truncated paragraphs and poorly edited prose abound within some articles, while others are scholarly… a chasm exists.
5. Articles infused with spite-fueled criticism grow like a bloom of red algae.
6. Slaughtering the white, male liberal is akin to washing the car… it’s dirty, tedious and repetitive, but has to be done or so it seems. ( I don’t have a car, only a bicycle — I live in hope.)
7. Surviving diets, break ups and the abysmal Trump years make up a huge portion of my algorithmically dictated reading fare.

But to move back to the Katy Perry inspired song during my self-inflicted sabbatical. I kissed Medium — and I liked it.

1. My reading of other writers during this writing break expanded and I became more discerning of my literary diet ie: the finely hewn words of Thomas Plummer, the honesty of Carol Burt.
2. The pressure to earn 3$/ month on Medium was lifted from my shoulders and like Atlas tossing the world aside, I could watch a Lakers game. ( The truth is I live in Japan and I can’t see a Lakers game, but I can watch Sumo Digest.)
3. Other writing endeavors stormed into the Medium void and replenished my writer’s soul. Breathe.
4. My cynicism toward algorithms peaked. I believe this to be a step forward.
5. I have confirmed a dislike for disjointed works of despairing derisory poetry. I am a fan of works from the Bard’s sonnets to Ginsberg but the current blur between verse and poetry is, for me, too unfocused and lacks in structure. It is in need of a redefinition or perhaps I am.
6. I have gained a new respect and admiration for the distance that exists between a journalist and a novelist.
7. I have (save for one unpleasantry) learned the value of engaging with the minds of those who make the effort to honestly lay pen to paper. It has been rewarding for me.

Needless to say in the words of paraphrased Katy Perry

I kissed Medium and I liked it. Hope my inner critic won’t mind it.

Unlike Prospero, I fear I lack the magic to cast a spell, yet as Prospero said, “I shall break my staff and bury it certain fathoms in the earth.”

For me, Medium is a chameleon; colors ever changing, bulbous eyes disconcerting, frozen, static and yet possessing a lightning tongue that can slash and pierce.

There are changes afoot in Medium and there is a ‘knocking.’ Could it be Duncan? To paraphrase the Bard: ‘I fear my pen may stain the sea of pages incarnadine, make the white red.’

We must ensure that Medium stays in the hearts of creatives, not algorithms nor milquetoast profit-fueled articles lest we, like van Gogh, must slice at our ears to silence the calls of our writer’s conscience.

Thanks for reading.