I’m Done Making Money Writing
I’m a story teller and money makes stories uninspiring
Warning: No nuance here. Just some random thoughts.
I started writing here because the platform is beautiful. It’s simple, elegant, user friendly, and there’s amazing content here. Thank you Medium for creating such a world. It has connected me to so many talented and inspiring writers. Ok, this is where the compliments end.
In that same beautiful world (last compliment), there’s some weird shit. Listicles. People bashing others. Hard-headed scientists. Hard-headed religious folks. People making money sharing their forced vulnerability. Content creators. I could go on. Maybe I will. Someday.
I just quit my medium partner program. Two reasons. I will put them in a list, making this post a listicle. I’m terrible sticking at my own virtues. Ok, two reasons:
- I’m bitter, lol. I expected more money.
- To make more money, I have to create more content, or interact more.
So I’m out. Of the partner membership. I’ll still be writing here because it’s great and please don’t ban me.
I don’t want to write more just for the sake of having my older stories read more. I don’t want to connect more, or clap more, just so people will read my stories more. That’s insincere. And if sincerity is not a thing for you, let this be enough inspiration: it’s awkward.
Everything I wanted to say IS in the stories I have written. I’ve never written a thing in hopes of getting more views or followers. The connections I have made are enough for a lifetime. In old times, people didn’t even have so many connections all over the world. Or maybe they did. I don’t actually know. See? That happens when you ‘just write’ to make money. You just say what other people said before and what you think will resonate with others, like: “In old times, people didn’t even have so many connections all over the world.” I don’t know if it’s true. I just picked that up somewhere and now I will pass it on to others, making the world a more homogeneous and boring place. I don’t want to do that.
Where was I? Doesn’t matter. I want to keep my stories pure. My dad told stories. Through books and poetry. The only thing I have ever touched from my father’s father, was a letter he wrote to his family while he was working far from home. I’ve only seen him as a baby, but I have no memory of that. The only thing I’ve seen of him is his handwriting.
That’s big to me. Gigantic. His handwriting meant so much to me. I will never reduce writing into something trivial. There’s a soul in words. That soul will reach the one who wants to read it and benefit the one who was blessed enough to receive those words and express them.
