10,000 Hours of Hate

Hemingway once said, “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master”.

Ugh… Did I just quote Hemingway? Let me get this straight; I am not really a fan of Ernest H., but I somehow find it totally acceptable to borrow his magic hat for a moment, to inspire my readers to understand how passionately I feel about writing? Hypocrite. Oh well; I am pretty sure Hemingway wouldn’t like my writing either.

While we are on the subject, shouldn’t the fact that Hemingway killed himself, sort-of call everything he has ever written into question anyway? I am not trying to hate on the old man; I am probably just bitter, and a little jealous that he was better at suicide than I am.

I mention this quote because it ties so perfectly to the end to my first three years of writing. I have found considerable enjoyment watching other people read my thoughts. To be honest, I’m a little surprised that a group of villagers carrying torches and pitchforks hasn’t already mustered on the front lawn, with written demands for my head.

I have also experienced some of the predicted disappointment. Although I was aware of its unlikeliness, I still fantasized that my words would be immediately recognized as genius and sent viral; launching me toward fame and fortune. The blogs about writing told me not to expect too much right out of the gate, but to my dismay, I hoped regardless.

This is a struggle for most modern writers. Amateur wordsmiths all seem to begin convinced that their arrangement of twenty-six letters will change the face of literature, only to find that nobody really cares what you have to say in the beginning. Being a successful writer used to start by getting the attention of a few gatekeepers. Those same gatekeepers are still in charge, but they are definitely losing their power.

Indie publishing has created a new environment, where you start out trying to get the attention of the many. The democratization of prose has brought millions to the party, which in turn has made it nearly impossible to get noticed. To be a modern author means more than just being good with the words; you must also be a great marketer with plenty of social media savvy.

Competition may bring out the best in some people, but it almost always brings out at least a fraction of hate in all of them. I write like a fighter, and should you want my best game you had better be ready for some hate; even if I love you. Every success I have achieved involved loving what I was doing, while simultaneously hating who I did it for. I’m not saying my personal dichotomy for success is normal, but it has remained true so far.

You should know that I am an expert on hate, and a firm believer that hate is not always a bad idea. We like to pretend love and hate are opposites, but they are merely identical feelings viewed from different perspectives.

All of that being said; I have done the math and found that I have exactly seven-thousand, one-hundred and four hours of hate left for all of you. I won’t bore you with the details; it’s accurate, trust me. The good news is that I started with ten-thousand hours of hate for you, and we have already worked off the first three-thousand or so hours, without you even noticing.

How do I know, so precisely, our current tab?

I recently finished reading Malcolm Gladwell’s third book, Outliers, in which he postulates that it takes ten-thousand hours to become a master at almost anything. There is nothing I love more than “pop economics”, so to Malcolm I say, “Dare accepted”. If I want to be a world-class writer, I will need to spend at least ten-thousand hours occupied passionately toward that goal. I have a lot of work to do.

Dares can be dangerous for me. Mostly, because my passion looks very similar to insanity. When the right dare registers, it is as if the beast within me that accepts dares is goaded to life, and he is not happy about it. With one eye cracked open, this beast has noticed an intolerable impossibility and decides that the gauntlet has been thrown. The beast and I know that I am relentless and unstoppable during these quests, so there is about to be some serious hate. Psychiatrists have named the beast Mania, on several occasions, but I’ll call him Richard.

From here forward, everything I write will be done to master the art of writing itself. I will carefully pick my words every time I use them. If you send me a text, my response may be a simple, “Yep”, but it may also contain an eight-hundred word dissertation on my opinion of our friendship. In whatever form, I will be working toward mastery, five hours per day, every day, for the next four years. Richard is a quirky task-master; maybe I should call him Dick.

I also plan to outright annoy you on social media. I will learn to use every medium at my disposal to practice my attempt at cleverness. There will be rants, reviews, praises and diatribes; all peppered with hate and vulgarity. Lots of vulgarity. I can’t help it; I am offended by the fact that you are all so fucking offended, all of the time. Lighten up. I know your god better than most of you, and he just high-fived me there.

Finally, for those who know me best, there will be some hope. We all know that hope is the key to happiness, so I don’t normally allow that sort of optimism to penetrate my thoughts. It’s not really my color. I also know that there is no way I will make it through the next four years if I don’t, on occasion, substitute a little hope for hate.

Hope, for me, means things like keeping the self-destructive drinking to a minimum, or spending less time fantasizing about my own demise. You would be shocked if you knew how comforting to me, to imagine jumping off of a building or shooting myself in the head. Those thoughts are just one of my idiosyncrasies. I also shit my pants a bit too often for a man my age, but I don’t think that will get in the way of the writing.

Please don’t worry; I know there will be plenty of time and money for booze, whores and crazy thoughts after I am a successful writer.  What do you mean you weren’t worried about that? You’re selfish.

So that is it then; the gauntlet has been thrown and it will be answered with vigor. I have dedicated myself to this craft, and I think I have a good chance of being a great writer four years from now. The elements for me to be successful are all there. I will be doing something I love, and since I will be working for myself, I will hate my fucking boss.

Post script: Just so you know, I have almost no adult, formal education at all. I tell you this because I want you to know how ridiculous I am, for embarking upon the above-mentioned quest. I left school at fifteen-years-old, and never went back. I have never passed a single high-school English class. Even before that, my rebellion against the people masquerading as my parents took the form of a terrible student. Picture a very young me, holding my report card in one hand and the bird in the other.

Finally, when I was sixteen, I was emancipated, making me a legal adult. Everything important I know has been learned; not taught. There is an important distinction between the two, but if you have only been taught, you will likely never understand that.