The Hack

I envy the guys from the old days of pulp fiction who could put out fiction by the pound. This kind of thing is where the word "hack" comes from. The "hack" is supposedly an uninspired wretch with no appreciation for true art. Supposedly "true art" cannot be produced in mass quantities. Writers have too high an opinion of their profession. What we do is supply insightful entertainment, either in the form of made-up stories, or in the form of easily-digested reportage of boring, mundane shit. The idea is to make money by supplying insight and entertainment. All writing should entertain, pleasure in reading should be a part of what makes you want to pick up a book or turn to an article. Reading should be as necessary and as hard to surrender as cigarettes and coffee, and writers, real writers, the ones who are earnest about the trade, should be working to meet the need.

Sitting and waiting for inspiration to strike, or struggling with words, you do these when you see writing as an art, some thing of incredible beauty that must come from your mind. You balk at the horror of the empty page, the immensity of the job. This is where knowing who you are comes in, this is where you are either a real writer or you are not. If you can get through the struggle and be able to admit when the last sentence was garbage, be able to burn three days of work, be able to smile as the words work themselves out the tips of your fingers, then maybe this is what you were always meant to do. Maybe.

It's either there or it's not, only you can tell. The jumble of ideas in your head, the sentences you overheard at a dinner-party, the pictures you saw this morning on the front page of the paper, the raw material of all the yet-unwritten, either have the story or they don't. Only the man with the keyboard can see the worth and draw it out.