People create for lots of different reasons. Some folks do it purely for the fun or catharsis of creation. Some do it as a vocation, if they’re good at it, enjoy it, and can hit the market just the right way. Others are trying to tap into something fundamental about humanity or probe deep into the eternal mysteries of the universe. And some just want to share their creation with the world and hope it brings a few people joy.

I fall into that last category. I write largely because I enjoy it, because it’s fun to tell stories, and I hope some other folks out there will enjoy reading them. I’m not trying to write the “great American novel” or plumb the depths of the human condition to help better understand my fellow people. All I’m really interested in is entertaining, maybe more thoughtfully sometimes, but that’s it.

Does that make me a hack?

I never thought so until recently. To my mind, “hack” was a pejorative term. Wikipedia, at least, agrees with me, defining a “hack writer” as a:

Term for a writer who is paid to write low-quality, rushed articles or books “to order”, often with a short deadline. In fiction writing, a hack writer is paid to quickly write sensational, pulp fiction such as “true crime” novels or “bodice ripping” paperbacks. In journalism, a hack writer is deemed to operate as a “mercenary” or “pen for hire”, expressing their client’s political opinions in pamphlets or newspaper articles. Hack writers are usually paid by the number of words in their book or article; as a result, hack writing has a reputation for quantity taking precedence over quality.

Putting to one side the unwarranted bias against “pulp” writing or romances inherent in that definition, it’s clear that being called a hack is insulting. It’s a charge that your insincere, only in it for the money, not making art but some kind of crass commercial product. If I was called a hack I’d be deeply offended, same as if someone in my professional life called me a shill or a mouthpiece.

But maybe I’m looking at things all wrong, if this Slate piece by Sam Adams is right. Titled “Bring Back the Hack,” it argues that movie studios should look to “hack” directors to helm their big-budget franchises rather than getting up-and-coming auteurs whose singularity tends to get squished in the franchise machine, anyway:

The problem here is two-pronged. The first is Hollywood’s penchant for sucking promising young directors into its maw, tempting them into selling their artistic souls to the franchise devil with medium-fat paychecks and the possibility of speaking to a larger audience. The second is that the movies frequently end up being lousy, extinguishing whatever hint of personality made the filmmaker attractive in the first place and revealing them to be hopelessly out of their depth when tasked with bending a massive studio movie to their will. You don’t get the unique stamp of an artist, but you also don’t get the frictionless craftsmanship that would be brought to the job by a seasoned old hand—in other words, a hack.

Adams seems to deem the primary feature of a “hack” as being that “you don’t know who they are.” He then launches into a discussion distinguishing workmanlike directors such as Jon Turtletaub and even John Huston from true auteurs. Later on, however, he sort of admits that “hack” isn’t really the word he’s looking for:

That’s where hacks come in. A hack—or, if you insist on a less prejudicial term, a craftsperson—isn’t out to make a movie their own. Their aim is to fulfill the task set before them. Like former cinematographer Jan de Bont and former costumer designer Joel Schumacher, they often entered the business from the lower ranks of the crew rather than as writer-directors, rising to the top with an understanding based in the practicalities of production. A hack is a perfect match for a formula film, whether it’s the latest IP extension or simply squarely in an established genre, because they don’t consider themselves better than the material.

This “craftsperson hack” category includes, for Adams, people like Ron Howard (who won Best Picture and Best Director Oscars for A Beautiful Mind) and Jon Favreau (who launched the most successful film series in history, not to mention The Mandalorian). If those guys are hacks then I suppose I’d be happy to be called one, though that term doesn’t feel right. Neither is somebody that’s on my list of favorite directors, the kind of people whose stuff I want to see just because they made it. But Adams cites Favreau’s going to battle with the studio to cast Robert Downey, Jr. for Iron Man, which hardly seems like a pliant, go-along-to-get-along kind of thing. Hell, if hacks can make stuff like Rush then sign me up.

At any rate, I don’t think the same kind of distinction can be made with writers. Name brands are a thing, after all, since people like to read more books from an author if they liked one of their books. That applies equally to deeply sublime stuff and more pulpy just-for-fun stuff. I suppose the closest thing you have in books is situations where some established author’s name continues to hold sway even though others are actually writing the books. Zombie comic strips come to mind, too, I suppose.

I tend to agree with Adams that bringing in somebody known for their personal vision in movies to direct the next comic book flick is kind of a waste. Regardless, I don’t think defining hack so broadly as to lose its meaning does anybody any favors. Leave to it the stain of uncaring make work, produced without any personal motivation.

I may be a lot of things, but I think I’m safe in saying I’m not a hack.