It Felt Like, For A Moment, I Got It

The pop of readership on Medium and the frustrating follow-up

I watched my follower count climb by the hour and my earnings practically did the same.

I was letting go of a lot of pent-up stories, releasing decades of shame and secrets, and my new-found audience loved it.

I felt validated, appreciated, and seen.

Until I didn’t.

The beginning

My earliest Medium editor and mentor called my beginning “meteoric.” I wrote, and people responded — hundreds of them.

What initially began as a vent post about my child’s treatment at school became deeper and more personal stories about myself.

Nothing was off limits. I wrote about my childhood, the abuse, the struggles, and when I finally found the courage to write about my rape, my readership hit a pinnacle.

That story remains my most successful piece.

Which, you know, says a lot.

I wrote the piece a couple of days before a last-minute trip to New York City. As I was walking around midtown, my phone was constantly buzzing with notifications for Medium. I watched my views hit extraordinary highs.

For just a brief space of time, for a breath, I was walking around New York as a real writer. There was this sparkling moment that hit on all of my daydreams. Maybe I could do this! Maybe I could become a “real writer,” move to New York, have a decent apartment, and spend my days immersed in the city and writing.

I returned home on Monday and was hit in a near head-on collision on Wednesday.

I was physically hurting and mentally very shaken up.

The fall…ish

My writing suddenly took a downturn. Not only could I not physically sit at the desk for hours with aching ribs, but my mind had retreated to a very primal place. I was basically in survival mode.

You see, car accidents are historically traumatic for me. My first husband was killed in an auto accident. I’ve lost friends to car accidents. I’ve been in scary crashes and it takes months for me to recover, a bit longer each time.

We segwayed directly from accident-recovery mode to holiday mode. The hustle and bustle of ‘doing’ Christmas for six kids is crazy. We somehow managed to purchase another vehicle and still keep all of our plans for gifts for the kids, but it was a financial squeeze.

I kept trying to write. I wrote about holidays with my family, heartwarming stories of being together, of cooking and baking for them, of the work I’ve put into creating a home. In November I published 14 pieces. Again, in December, 14 pieces. So my quantity didn’t decrease despite the circumstances in my life.

15 pieces in January, to my lowest earnings yet. Until this month, of course.

I poured my heart into those pieces, but they weren’t as sensational as a rape story, so I never hit those heights again.

The algorithm seemed to turn on me. Despite continuing many of the same behaviors- reading others’ work and commenting, saving impressive work to lists, and continuing to write, my posts garner but a few views instead of the hundreds they did just mere months ago.

I’ve read many pieces about other Medium writers who are leaving en masse to head over to Substack. Ideologically, I struggle with it as I don’t agree with some of the material that’s allowed to be published on that platform.

After some research, I found Ghost and set up an account there. I’ve set up specific newsletters. I’ve formatted everything to the best of my ability.

And… I’m stuck.

The future

I have no idea what I’m doing. The beauty of Medium, to me, was its simplicity. I could simply write and not have to be a ‘brand manager,’ newsletter manager, or marketing specialist. I could just write.

Now that seems to no longer be the case here.

The most successful pieces of mine have largely been what could easily be called trauma porn. I cannot and will not continue to write about my traumatic experiences ad nauseam solely to inflate numbers.

There was a reason for my writing what I did, and it was to share the experience so other women could know they are not alone and I did make it through. To give others hope. Not to provide a virtual car accident for everyone to rubberneck at.

I thought that’s what we were doing here. Now I feel like I have no idea what we’re doing.

I get that there’s an algorithm. It’s the beast we all live with, on every platform available, it seems. We have to play to the algorithm. But for me, I simultaneously don’t understand what the algorithm wants and am not willing to provide stories that cause me harm to write simply to get clicks.

Can’t I write beautiful descriptions of forests and family that inspire? Can’t I share the beauty of life past trauma, or must we relive the trauma again and again and again to keep the attention of readers?

I think I know the answer, and it saddens me.

My family is not unique from the vast majority of others. We need money to survive. My husband works very hard, and my income from Medium was so precious to me because it enabled me to finally give back to him and give him a little relief from being the sole provider. It gave me some self-worth. It made me feel not just accomplished, but simply appreciated.

I thought, finally, that my words had value.

Whatever changes that have been made on Medium in the past six weeks to two months are abysmal for us writers, the writers who write about family and love and healing and those simple things. I can no longer afford to give the attention I’d like to my writing here.

I’m probably going to have to get a job, which will be the end of any free time I could even begin to contemplate writing more than a handful of pieces a month on this platform. If I could figure out how to configure the subscription situation at Ghost, and market myself, maybe that would provide me an option.

If I could figure out how to get in touch with a publisher to even open a discussion about my collection of memoir essays, maybe that would provide me an option.

But both of those feel like a pipe dream right now. Right now, the bills are due, the family needs feeding, and art for art’s sake is a frivolity that hardly any of us have the space for in our lives. There aren’t ‘patrons’ out there providing financial support for those creating art.

If authentic writers who aren’t using AI or other ‘enhancements’ to create their content aren’t paid enough to justify the effort it takes to create written works worth reading, the AI and cheap crap will take over.

Medium will become the WalMart of literary sites. Is that where we’re headed?

At this moment, I’m still here, still trying. I just don’t know how much longer I can afford to do so, and inspiration dwindles as my earnings do. I’m not greedy; I’m a realist with a family to help support.

Am I alone in this? Are you struggling to keep up with the ever-changing algorithm here? Did I just fall off my game and need to rediscover the magic?

Am I just speaking into the void?

My name is Melissa Corrigan, and I’m a freelance writer/thought sharer/philosopher in coastal Virginia. I am a mom, a wife, a veteran, and so much more. I deeply enjoy sharing my thoughts and receiving feedback that sparks genuine, respectful conversation.

If you like my content, please consider subscribing… click here and follow along as I explore the themes of parenting, political ideologies, religious deconstruction, life as an adoptee, and LGBT allyship and family. Also, check out my two publications, adoptēre- to uplift the voices of adoptees, and Served- to uplift the voices of veterans of the US military.

If you love my work, consider buying me a coffee? Or further, become a member for exclusive content and more!