THE SORE LOSER FILES (FINI)
Newsflash: We Don’t Have to Write Here!
We don’t have to “dummy up” when something stinks, either
Writing my “sore loser” recounting of the dirty business that was the Medium Writers Challenge, I knew in the back of my mind that sooner or later, someone would remind me, that I don’t have to write here. As if I’m a blithering idiot who doesn’t realize that I signed on of my own accord.
Well, damn. I don’t have to get out of bed in the morning and draw breath, either, but I’ve become accustomed to it.
What an inane and overused sentiment. We “don’t have to write here.”
No. I certainly don’t have to write on Medium, but, as I’ve been at it for three years, I’m not ready to see all my hard work land in the shitter. And, I’m not ready to turn my back on the precious friendships I’ve forged. I’ve come to love so many of you guys and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
And here’s something else I don’t have to do, but just can’t refrain from reiterating. The Medium Writers Challenge was a challenge, alright. A challenge to forget that Medium doesn’t give a flying F about us if they blatantly and arrogantly “fix” a story that had no business winning.
Sixty thousand dollars is quite a haul. And life-changing for many of us. But, we’ll never know, will we? Perhaps if we had written scintillating lines like the following, we’d have had a better shot.
Instead of the freeway, we designed our meandering route to procrastinate the task in front of us.
Huh.
Plus, talk about a literal interpretation of death! The author’s mother died of cancer. The grandmother killed herself. Both tragedies, for sure, but I tried to get creative with my “death” story. Because I’m a dumbass.
What I should have recounted:
Well, hey, both my parents were diagnosed with stage four lung cancer at the same time and dropped dead within two weeks of one another nine months later. Without complaint, they endured chemo and horrific “procedures” that would straighten your pubic hair.
My father’s skin was so thin and cracked from psoriasis and all the shit he was on that it turned purple and literally peeled off his body. In strips. Finally, when he became incontinent he stopped talking. A still-breathing, dead man in a hospice bed.
My mother choked to death in the middle of the night. That’s how cancer ended her.
And I had breast cancer! See folks? Shit happens. All over the world. People die from disease or by their own hands, or, if they’re blessed, by “natural causes.”
Perhaps if I had been more literal, dug my toes into the very ground my parents are buried in, and wrote about that, I would have had a better shot.
See, the thing is, the way this went down wasn’t right. You can spin it like the most dedicated of Trump ass-kissers, but, the fact that the Big Winner violated Medium mandates and still took home sixty grand is patently wrong.
And it concerns me that we’ve become so passive and inert that even expressing our frustration over a challenge where so many of us worked our asses off for a joke of an outcome is unseemly. We’re seen as “grumps” or harbingers of “sour grapes.”
And, what’s so wrong with that? It’s not the winners who should be held accountable, but the folks behind the challenge.
The worst part about this whole mess, are the “crickets” received in response to our questions about what happened and why.
That said, for me, the challenge, over and done with, has taken a back seat to being ignored. To being treated like I, or the rest of us, don’t matter.
If that doesn’t stick in your craw, y’all, just a little, then I’m shouting into the abyss.
Apathy is a dangerous state of being. Forget Medium. Not giving a damn, nor worse, giving one and letting things slide because the shit ain’t ever gonna be fair…anywhere…is a loser’s game.
Should Donald Trump be free to spew his particular brand of poison because, hey, “we don’t have to pay attention to it?”
If you saw a man publicly abuse his wife, would you speak up as one of my favorite writers here did or think, “not my business?”
On a blistering summer day, in the grocery store parking lot, a dog is shut up in a hot car, with the windows closed. Would you alert the authorities or get in your own car and drive home because, “oh well, shit happens?”
Now, I know these are extreme examples but I don’t believe being reminded that we don’t have to write here is constructive criticism.
And, conversely, maybe some of us do have to write here because it’s our sole creative outlet. And one that lets us express that creativity in our own unique way.
Again, as far as the MWC goes, what’s done is done. Until the next kick in the teeth. And there’s always a next one.
And, you’ll probably be happy to know that, since nobody seems to really give a flying F, this will be my last word on the subject. Maybe. If nothing else, I’ve been reminded that I need to revisit some of my past projects while keeping the juices flowing, on Medium.
Nope. I don’t have to write here, but here I am. And I’m fairly certain that I’m such a small fish that my leaving, as others have “vowed” to do, would serve no one. Least of all, me.
If you can handle it, read every one of my stories and those of other fab Medium writers. I’ll get a couple of shekels and you’ll have full access to this whole joint! https://sherrymcguinn.medium.com/membership
Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.
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