Snarkattack

It’s funny how the somewhat derogatory term ‘hack’ actually meant journalist, once. I only just learnt this recently. Initially, it referred to the new breed of writers frequenting coffee houses and exchanging ideas in eighteenth-century London, for which Grub Street is apparently famous. Everyone seemed hungry for ideas, for writing and reading them.

Not that much has changed. Today, you still have your cliched black-clad beatniks occupying cafes; writing, smoking and drinking water because they had one cup of coffee four hours ago and that’s all they can afford to buy (if they stopped smoking, the money saved could buy them 2, perhaps 3 cups). Looking all thoughtful-like.

Not much change, except for the reading bit. I confess that I’m very unlikely to be interested in what black-clad beatnik #351 is writing, probably because I’m too busy writing my own crap. Or, being another such hack.

Even worse, not only am I a hack, would-be wordsmith, I am a very cowardly one. This brings me to the snark of the day.

But first, background ( enter groan here). Sorry.

I’ve been helping out at a non-profit organisation that aims to support and foster Australian poetry. I go in once a week for a few hours and get to do all sorts of cool things. The founder of the organisation has had a lot to do with engaging the general public to view poetry as more accessible, or challenge notions of its perceived elitism. This is what I have gleaned from my limited exposure thus far.

Last week, it had surfaced in conversation that I had finished a part-poetic piece I was working on (no, really, it did: I didn’t ’slip it in’ all stealthy-like. Please, that requires…stealth). Very kindly, he offered to look at it if it would help me. In my mind, my eyes popped out of their sockets and very timidly, I said I’d e-mail the piece (think of the following as being uttered in a squeaky scared voice) but only if it wasn’t too much trouble.