Is Hack Really Such A Bad Thing?

Hack is usually used as a derogatory adjective. To be a hack writer means that you grind out thousands upon thousands of words without thinking about the art of writing. You are viewed as nothing more than a word factory. Is that such a bad thing?

Think about the dime store pulp novels of the fifties. There was something for every taste including romance, mystery, and western. These novels carried a low price tag and new ones were available at least every month. They were not going to win the Pulitzer Prize for literature, but they were stories that people enjoyed reading. They entertained the hard working Americans.

Let’s look outside the realm of the written word. Almost everyone I know enjoys a hard hitting action movie. Remember the eighties when Stallone, Seagal, Schwarzenegger and Van Damme would produce movie after movie of nothing but action, cursing and killing? Those movies weren’t winning Academy Awards, but just like the pulp novels they were entertaining and people enjoyed watching them.

The same thing occurs on television. You cannot surf through a dozen channels before hitting so called “reality television.” There is hack content if I have ever seen it, but look at what it has in common with everything I just talked about. It is produced with quantity being more important than quality. It is not winning any awards. It entertains people. And it is in some sort of demand or else it wouldn’t be worth producing.

So what is wrong with being a hack, especially in this digital age when it is easier than ever to produce and distribute your work? Speaking of the digital age, the majority of the websites you see is full of hack content. No matter what subject is covered the words need to be written and site owners pay writers to produce high volumes of content to fill those pages. 

Now I would be insane or stupid or both to suggest that quality does not suffer when focusing on quantity, but to say that there is no quality at all would also be insane or stupid or both. The audience that enjoys this type of entertainment is not stupid. They like to be entertained as a form of stress relief. This is the entertainment that does it for them. 

So there is nothing wrong with being a hack. In fact, hacks get paid. If you want to make money at what you love then you need to be a hack. If you are happy at your day job, then I guess you can produce that artsy stuff.

Better yet you can do both because, as Ben Affleck said in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, “You have to do the safe picture then you can do the art picture.”

#fridayflash - "Sub Two"

The sub two hour marathon was a mythical feat. People believed that it could be done, but most believed it was humanly impossible. But as people got closer to two hours, more people started paying attention.

It was 2016 when the fastest man in the world completed the London Marathon in two hours one minute and twenty-nine seconds. This is when it really got serious.

Both the Boston Athletic Association and the New York Road Runners put up a $5,000,000 prize to the first person to break two hours, if they did it on their course.

Now my personal record for the marathon was only 2:39:29. I was nowhere near two hours, but I heard of someone that could give you anything you wanted for the right price. Me? I wanted to be fast, rich, and famous.

So I looked into it. It didn’t involve doping or cheating or anything else illegal. I knew that race officials would question a runner dropping forty minutes off his PR. I expected they would submit me to all kinds of investigations. I was not worried. This was all legit.

So here I was sitting in front of a monster of a desk, across from the man who would guarantee me fortune and glory. Why no one else had ever done this before me is puzzling, but the price was steep for most. Not me though. I knew that this would all be worth it.

The man sat in his oversized chair, staring at me. He leaned comfortably on the arms of the chair with his hands folded in front of his face as if he was praying. Praying to whom was another question.

He wore a dark suit with very subtle pinstripes. Plain white shirt. Dark red tie that matched his cufflinks. I don’t know about fashion, but I could tell that this suit cost more than most folks make in a year.

His eyes examined me for an eternity. I could not help but wiggle a bit in my chair. No matter what I could not find a comfortable spot. He dropped his hands to speak to me.

“I am willing to do business with you, but you must understand the terms of my contract.”

It felt hard to speak. “I understand.”

“Many people think that my prices are too much. Be certain that once you achieve your goal I will come to collect.”

He spoke in a very calm and serious tone. “I am willing to pay.” I swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in my throat. “As long as you deliver.” I had to swallow again. The lump would not budge.

The look in his eyes was chilling. I felt chills run through my spine. He slid a single piece of paper across the desk. A pen rested on top of it.

I looked at the paper. There seemed to be more words than could possibly fit on a single piece of paper. I didn’t need to read it. I picked up the pen, which appeared to be just as expensive as everything else in the room, and signed my name.

I slid the paper back and for the first time a slight smile crossed the man’s face.

So the morning of the Boston Marathon comes along and I am feeling great. My training went well, my runs were perfect and I knew that this was my day.

The gun goes off and I rocket off the starting line. I don’t feel like I am putting in any effort at all, but I know I am going fast because I quickly break away from the rest of the field. Two or three guys stick with me, but by mile ten there was only one left and he fell back around mile fifteen.

When I turned the final corner and saw that finish line my adrenaline pulsed through my body. I was only a few hundred feet from the finish. I broke tape and the clock read 1:59:23. Everyone was yelling and cheering, and cameras were clicking all around me.

I remember everyone crowding around me. Someone gave me a sports drink. Someone else gave me a towel. I felt a million hands patting me on the back. I was so excited and on such a high that everything blurred together. The first real face that I made out was his.

He walked with confidence. People made a path in front of him without even realizing they were doing it. He wore the same dark suit. Same shirt. Same tie and matching cufflinks. The only difference was the huge smile he wore on his face.

When he was within reach he stuck out his hand. I took it in a firm shake. “Congratulations” he whispered in my ear as he patted my back with his free hand. He turned around and was gone.

I knew that he would expect me to make good on my debt, but to come and collect so soon? I didn’t even have time to enjoy it. Emotion swept out of my body. All at once I was empty. 

As expected there were all kinds of allegations when an unknown like me broke two hours. Everyone wanted drug testing and investigations. The sponsors refused to pay until everything was proven legit.

Me? I didn’t care about anything. I lay in my bed all day. Everything felt meaningless. Empty. Useless. I was a shell.

That is how I ended up here, talking to you. I figured death would restore my soul. I would be whole again. I was wrong.

I can’t get into paradise because I have nothing to enter with and I can’t take damnation because the man down there already has what he wants.

So here I am. Stuck in this hell, or is it hell? Something worse? 

But the messed up thing about all this? I never even got to spend my money.