Medium Secrets Revealed

My Discovery as a Medium Top Writer

You shouldn’t believe what I found on the island.

The journey

Golden ticket in hand, I step Gingerly onto the teakwood rowboat. The small vessel is the only known way to Medium’s private island resort for Top Writers.

I pushed away my imposter syndrome as I never expected to be here.

I need to see your badge, sir.

The rowboat pilot mumbles sullenly as he struggles with the oars. Or paddles. Whichever one is not for a canoe.

As I gaze toward the murky horizon, I speak the words I think the pilot wants to hear.

I believe in you Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier). Someday editors will recognize your bullsh*t for what it’s worth. Your nonsense too.

It’s my first trip to the island, and the TW badge has already gone to my head.

I step onto the flawless sand with a completely different amount of Gingerness.

The island

Robert Ralph, chief of the island’s welcome committee, is waiting on the shore. It dawns on me for the first time that New Writers truly are Welcome. To Robert’s left are both Susie Pinon and Susie Kearley, carrying a basket of oranges as a greeting gift. ¹

I bite a valencia orange from the basket and smile back. I want to say something memorable and clever to the brilliant pair until I realize with horror that I don’t remember which Susie is which.

Noticing my discomfort, Robert speaks up.

Don’t worry, Mark. It happens to everyone.

All the best writers on Medium come in pairs.

Here’s how I remember.

Pinon reminds me of pinion feathers and nothing makes me feel like flying more than knowing Anyone Can Write Online.

Susie K. writes passionately about the environment.Kearley sounds like curling. If all the polar ice caps melt, they’ll take curling out of the Winter Olympics.

The four of us share a polite chuckle at Robert’s nonsensical memory aid when a maskless Yana Bostongirl strolls up the beach.

In my head, I put Patrick Eades and Philip Ogley together. Both men are hilarious masters of satire with similar names. I wonder if people ever confuse Kristine Laco and Kristen Stark. Or BichoDoMato and BichoDoMato.

The cafe’

I continue my Medium pilgrimage to the coffee shop where David Perlmutter vigorously highlights every story in the Mediumsphere. He sees me enter with my Top Writer entourage, and our eyes meet. He gets up from his 1989 Apple 2 computer and beckons me closer.

I edge toward him, surprised by my hesitation at approaching the friendliest man on Medium. His powerful arms snake towards my head with blazing speed. Faster than I can react, he yanks my noggin and whispers closely, divulging his secrets.

My antique computer screen is green. I hi-light everything so I can turn the text back into black and white.

I don’t give a snippy skuzbucket about anyone else’s stories.

I metaphorically shat my pants in incredulous surprise.

If you think that’s suprising, wait until you get to the sub- basement.

And then he cackled. A straight-up Gargamel finally captured Papa Smurf kind of cackle. A Hogan Torah puts you in a coma for two years kind of cackle.

David returned to his booth, slurping a lukewarm Chai Latte through a bendy straw. I ventured towards the dimly lit doorway to Medium HQ undernethers.

The sub-basement

I enter, finding Tony Stubblebine and Toni Greathouse pacing feverishly around a dilapidated storeroom with futuristic machinery in the center.

I pondered the likelihood of finding both Tonys in this room.

Coach Tony must have noticed my puzzlement because he answered the unasked question on my lips.

You can’t run a company with only one Tony, no matter how you spell it.

-Peter Drucker ²

Hearing this stoic quotation from the father of modern management puts all my concerns at ease. Until I gather closer to the metallic monstrosity of blinking lights still occupying Toni. G.

Is Everything Fun? I mumble, looking around the room for Hollie Petit, Ph.D.

Toni G. responds, scolding me like a child sneaking candy.

No, you silly silly gooser.

This is the algorithm.

I stagger back, falling to my knees in reverence and fear-struck terror. If only Christine Stevens was here to create a safe Haven from my fear.

The algorithm

The pattern of the lights begins to change, and the center of the machine rotates on an unseen axis. A glowing sphere emanates from a series of 70’s era vacuum tubes and transistors.

It was then I noticed the sphere wasn’t completely round. Two protrusions of microspheres jettisoned from the area facing me.

I blinked.

The sphere blinked in return. Steam and noxious gas filled the basement as an amorphous face replaced the dissolving spheres.

I knew that face.

“No”, I cried. “It can’t be!”

Its vocal circuits poured robotic speech through hidden speakers throughout the walls and ceiling.

You may know me by my other name.

Smillew

The lie

Memories from months on Medium flashed back in unison. All of Smillew’s hyper-enthusiastic friend feud with Waco Laco — Computer generated fakery.

100 stories for 100 writers — The kind of programming baseline that a virgin A.I. would need to create its recommended stories.

And it all made sense. No human can be that clever. Smillew had to be a machine.

As my shock subsided, my mental prowess returned.

If Smillew is a bloody genius, how could the algorithm give such terrible recommendations? It recommended me to me, for goodness sake.

Algo-Smillew replied with a smirk on his holographic face.

This what we call a plot hole.

Pretend this is a Marvel movie, and don’t worry about it.

But I worried. And ran for the door, the cafe’, the beach, and the boat.

As Dr. Burg rowed me back to the mainland, I pondered who would believe this ludicrous story.

If I share Medium’s secrets, will anyone believe me? Will I ever be a Top Writer again?

Probably not.

Footnotes:

¹ Disclaimer: All characters and quotes in this story are fictional creations of the author. Especially the real people with links to their Medium profiles.

² Real person, but he did not say this.

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