Does Talent Matter?

 A Facebook meme a while back read, “People who say talent doesn’t matter are those who don’t have any.” (Or something like that. I’m retired, but I still have enough of a life not to worry about the precise wording of old Facebook memes.)

I don’t know if I agree completely, but I’m there at least ninety-nine percent of the way. I’d modify it to read, “People who say talent doesn’t matter are those who don’t want it to,” which strongly implies they don’t have it without being quite so accusatory.

This puts me in mind of what might be the best-learned lesson of my abortive musical career. I was never the best trumpet player beginning any level of school. I busted my ass and became one of the best at that level by outworking everyone else.

Then I went to grad school, where I encountered people with more talent who were willing to work as hard as I did. And a few who didn’t have to work nearly as hard.

I was, and remain, good friends with a player whose skills amazed even our teacher in the Boston Symphony, who said,  “I can’t play some of the shit he seems to sight read.” My friend went on to play Principal Trumpet in Memphis and retired a few years ago after twenty-plus years as Associate Principal in Montreal.

I’m not saying my friend didn’t work at it, but he started on a plane so much higher than mine there was no way I could keep up with him, let alone narrow the gap.

That’s what talent does for you.

Writing is like that. Stephen King once said there are four levels of writers:

1.    Incompetent

2.    Competent

3.    Good

4.    Great

He also said an incompetent writer cannot become competent; there’s something missing in how they’re wired or they wouldn’t be incompetent in the first place. A competent writer can become a good writer through studious study and application of the craft, but a good writer can no more become a great writer than the incompetent can become competent. There’s something missing, and that something is talent.

No one wanted to be a trumpet player more than I did. No one ever worked harder. Music got my best effort and I’m comfortable with the decision to leave. To use a baseball metaphor, I was at best a AA talent trying to play in The Show. I could hang in short stretches, but sooner or later the holes in my game would be exposed.

Writing has been different. There are ways to take advantage of one’s strengths and hide weaknesses that are available to writers that musicians can’t rely upon unless they get to play only the music they choose. I applied the lessons I learned from music and, I believe, promoted myself from competent good on.

And that’s as far as it goes.

I admire the work of Dennis Lehane and James Crumley and Elmore Leonard and Dashiell Hammett and many others. I learn from them. But I know I’ll never write at that level. That’s not a defeatist attitude. It’s a firm grip on reality. I’ve had two publishers, been nominated for two Shamus awards, get panels at every conference I attend, and have the respect of people I respect. If that’s as good as it gets, I’m fine with it.

Kurt Vonnegut was correct: It’s all right to be less than wonderful at something you love. What’s not all right is to have a false idea of where your ceiling might be and make yourself miserable trying to break through it. Life is too short. Take what victories you get from writing and use them to enhance your life.

This is why I don’t believe in bucket lists. I know too many people who have missed out on everyday pleasures because their eyes were too far down the road. They consider themselves failures unless they attain a level of accomplishment that may be beyond their control.

(This does not apply to writers who are still so new they don’t know where they fall on King’s spectrum. People need their dreams. They also need to know when to accept reality.)

I’m not saying anyone should quit if things aren’t going your way. I’m suggesting that, if the frustrations of the industry are sucking the joy from the craft, remember to enjoy the ride, even if you have to find a less ambitious destination.

Is Talent Enough?

I was fortunate to hear Reed Farrel Coleman speak at this year’s Creatures, Crimes, and Creativity conference. Some of what he said was new to me and some helped to confirm conclusions I’d come to on my own. I summarized his comments in an earlier post. Suffice to say if you get a chance to hear him talk about writing, make every effort to get there. It’s worth your time.

As luck would have it, Reed also wrote an article for the Signature web site last month, talking about the importance of talent in writing. I’ll leave you to read the whole thing yourself, as it’s brief and well worth your time. To me, the money quote is:

For years I’ve gotten into hot water with my peers and aspiring writers at “how to” conferences and workshops for my liberal use of an apparently taboo word: talent. It took me a while to figure out why that word elicited such ire. Depending upon your worldview, talent is either a gift from God or a matter of genetic serendipity. But regardless of whether you believe it comes in on little cats’ feet or is a result of great grandma marrying the wine merchant instead of the tailor, one thing is true about talent: It can’t be taught. You either have it or you don’t. You can have all the panels you want on how to build a better website, how to create a foolproof marketing plan, how to write a great first sentence, or how to outline a dynamic plot. None of it will matter if you don’t have writing talent.

What [Reed’s] detractors often fail to hear above the din of their booing is that talent isn’t enough. As a philosophy professor might say, talent is requisite, not sufficient.

To which I say: Amen.

Along these lines, Stephen King notes in his wonderful little book, On Writing, there are four levels of writer:

Great

Good

Competent

Incompetent

A competent writer can become good, but there isn’t really any movement between any other ranks. (Personal note: We all intuitively know great writers can on occasion piss away their gift through drugs, alcohol, self-indulgence, or a combination of any or all three.) What King says here is essentially the same as Coleman’s point: you can learn all the craft you want, but the key element, the one that has to be there for any education to make a difference, is talent.

I ca provide first-hand evidence of this: me. My formal education is in music. I hold a bachelor’s degree in Music Education and a Master of Music in Trumpet Performance. I was good. Every time I moved up a level—junior high to high school, high school to college, college to an army band—I started out somewhere down the rank and busted my ass until I was in the top couple of players in the group.

Then I went to graduate school at New England Conservatory and found myself in the company of trumpeters who were willing to work as hard as I was, and had more talent. Even more depressing, I found myself working with musicians who sight-read pieces better than I could ever hope to play them. I couldn’t compete with that. I saw the handwriting on the wall for a while but it took fatherhood and the need for a steady income for me to decipher it.

Do I have more writing than musical talent? Duh. I work hard on my craft, but I also must admit I’ve sweated far less blood to attain a higher level of accomplishment as a writer than I ever did as a musician. Not that I’m an award-winning bestseller, but I do have contracts and award nominations. There are no remotely similar accomplishments on my trumpet resume. That’s not to say I’m James Lee Burke or Joseph Wambaugh, either. I have more talent than some, less than many.

Here’s what a lot of people who get too close to their dreams to separate them from their goals lose sight of: There’s no shame in lacking talent. It’s hard to face up to its lack at the one thing you may want to do more than anything else, but that’s only you. No one else holds it against you. The older I get, the more I understand the core thing anyone should aim for is to be as happy as one reasonably can. This is easier for some based on circumstances beyond anyone’s control, but everyone should find some niche in their lives that gives them joy and spend time there. Constantly seeking accomplishment in a field one’s gifts are not well suited for can only lead to frustration, and frustration and happiness do not travel hand-in-hand.

Writing is by its nature a frustrating life. You work hard to get to an elusive and subjective accomplishment, and, even if you achieve it to your satisfaction, the odds are against general acceptance. (Calm down, writers. This doesn’t make you special. All the arts are like this.) Rejection is part of the business. Even if said rejection is an accurate assessment of your work, it’s not you that’s been rejected. It’s the work. Move on and be happy, even if that means something else to be happy at. Life’s too short.

Nature vs. Nurture in Writing

Dan O’Shea has another thought-provoking post on his blog today, referring to posts by John Hornor and Chuck Wendig about how much of writing is talent alone, and how much of it can be taught. (There’s a lot more to their comments than that; go check them out. I’ll wait.)

I commented on the other blogs, but it occurred to me that my two comments tied well into a single blog post and, since I haven’t posted anything for about a week, I might as well get off my ass and do it.

Stephen King has my favorite take on how much one’s writing can be improved in his excellent book, On Writing. (Recommended for all writers, regardless of style or genre.) I don’t have the book handy, so I’ll paraphrase (while plagiarizing my comment on Dan’s blog):

There are four levels of writer: Incompetent, Competent, Good, and Great.

An Incompetent writer is, well, incompetent. Not much you can do with him.

A Competent writer can, with work and guidance, become a good writer.

A Good writer can, with sloth and dissipation, become a Competent writer. He cannot, however, become a Great writer, only a better writer.

Great writers are born. They can, however, piss that greatness away and become Good, or merely Competent. We all know people who have done this.

Greatness is that unteachable spark called talent, or a gift, or God’s Lips to our ear. Everything else can be learned. Incompetence is like anti-talent: no matter how hard you try, you’re just not wired that way. You’re never going to get it.

I suspect it’s not just writing. Every field is like this. I used to be a musician, and it’s certainly true there.

Can anything truly be taught? The best teacher I ever had says no one can teach you anything. Everything is learned through a combination of trial and error and rote. The teacher—if he’s good—is a guide. He uses his experience to suggest paths most likely to lead to success, and cautions against dead ends. He encourages, but not unrealistically.

So I’d say yes, writing can be learned, though it cannot be taught any more than anything else can. Which is still plenty.