Why Talent isn’t Always Natural
To some, talent is like hair color, except it never
changes, even due to age or sun exposure. You have it or you don’t. For a long
time, I couldn’t put my finger on the obstacle between my and my professor’s
philosophies until, one day, I stage managed for a theatrical iteration of Crime and Punishment. Rodion Raskolnikov,
a young struggling writer, believes deeply there are extraordinary people and ordinary
people and God forbid someone ordinary thinks of himself as anything more. You
are what you are. Because he is extraordinary, because he must prove he is extraordinary, he commits a
violent murder with the belief a great individual would get away with it. You
can tell author Fyodor Dostoevsky is writing a somewhat autobiographical but
critical reflection on his own philosophy, mostly because Raskolnikov’s words make
sense out of so many individual’s actions.
The more someone believes in this the harder they take
their first criticisms, thinking that if people don’t like this book now,
clearly they were not meant to do it, clearly they can never be an author. They
also tend to be harsher, faster to judge, and more resentful of change in
general.
I have been envious of the philosophy a little, thinking
that it must be easy to bank everything on Fate. Imagine if all you had to do
to know if you’ll be a successful writer is write one draft of one book and give it to one person and you’d have your answer. Most of the great pieces of
fiction wouldn’t exist, of course, if we all operated that way, but it’d save
us from a lot of heartache.
While most writers want to know if they have the talent
to continue on, it’s actually not the most important aspect about whether or
not you ‘should’ be a writer. Your talent changes over time, grows, disappears,
misdirects, and, of course, errors. What factors go into a piece working has
less to do with an inherent part of you and far, far more to do with context
and experience.
Stalling and insecurity
changes our natural voice.
A common reason a manuscript’s voice doesn’t work is not
because of the author’s unique perspective or even those personal tastes he
has, but because his uncertainty subtracts from a genuine sense of self.
New writers tend to over explain things, focus on clarity
over ambiance, and sometimes seem like they’re begging their audience to think
what they’re saying is cool. It’s hard to put your finger on it, but there is
definitely a stronger style for authors who have confidence than those who are
testing the waters and erring on too much (already implied) details.
Add in the author’s propensity to stall while looking for
words or thinking what may happen next, the writer who might have a naturally
great repertoire of words and perception can ruin it while stumbling around.
He’ll add in excess phrases, pointless tangents, details that no one cares
about or already understood. When people suggest he’s doing these things and
they don’t like it, he might feel as though they’re questioning his inherent
voice when in reality, stalling and insecurity are part of the common
adjustment period that you slowly start to get over through experience.
We think faster than we talk
and talk faster than we write.
Writing is about relearning how to speak, in a way. When
an author’s ‘inherent’ writing style isn’t working, it doesn’t necessarily mean
he’s a bad story teller. In fact, you’ll note that people who are great at
parties aren’t always great at writing ideas down. This can be attributed to a
lot of things (such as tone of voice and body language), but it’s also important
to remember that to get something on paper, you have to slow down your thoughts
and your words, which obviously can
change the natural way you speak. If a writer’s voice sounds mechanical,
forced, and… written, it’s because he
again needs to adjust to this new way of speaking and has nothing to do with
how well he can tell a story.
Seeing reality instead of
the fictional reality.
Standards of protocol are the artist’s bane. They are the
choices done a certain way only
because they are done that way, and can feel restrictive, generic, and
uninteresting.
On the other hand, doing things the way they’re “supposed
to be” gives you credibility and helps you direct attention where you want it.
Use expected format so the reader pays more attention to the words. Use
expected words to draw attention to the action. Use expected action to draw
attention to the unusual interpretation. Playing around with expectation and abnormality
helps you develop powerful tools for controlling the focus.
Fictional reality and standards are important
considerations when it comes to making readers trust you. By writing what is truly
real—or what should be true—instead
of what is often seen in fiction, people will get confused and discredit you.
For instance, we are introduced to random people in our
lives all of the time who have no real effect on our story, yet if you have too
many characters who seem to have no purpose, it will look like you don’t plan
very well and you’re not concerned with wasting the reader’s time.
Or, you killed off a trillion characters in a genocide
because you know your readers should feel terrified for that high number, but
the truth is they’d have been more upset if you’d just killed the dog.
The reality that should
be true isn’t always the reality you’re working with. Even the reality that is true isn’t always the best option.
It’s not that you have to do what people expect to be a
good writer, just that knowing what
people expect is pretty useful part of precise and effective storytelling.
Doing what you’re “supposed
to.”
In the opposite vein, instead of writing the way he would
like literature to exist, the book he wants to be written, the new author
attempts to do what he’s thinks he’s supposed to. He thinks too much about what
is expected of a novel and doesn’t question if that’s really the best choice.
He uses big words because real writers do. He uses small
words because that’s what great writers do. He sticks in the token female
character and makes her a Strong Independent Woman. He writes the genre he
thinks will make him look smart or make money instead of the one he actually
likes reading.
Or maybe he is refraining from doing any the above
because he’s afraid of looking like a hack.
It’s not an issue of cliché, it’s an issue of being
genuine and taking his own personal tastes seriously. The new author’s talent
lies in his own unique desires combined with his honest, relatable feelings. By
denying how he actually sees the world, wants literature to be, and writing
what he wants to write, he is denying his natural ability.
Paralyzed by fear he’s not a
“Chosen One.”
Because ‘natural’ talent is the only thing that matters
to some people, often potential writers will be demobilized by the thought that
another person might not like their writing, that this first book isn’t as good
as their favorite masterpieces.
While I don’t believe in the whole “first books always
suck,” mentality, I do think that the repeated insistence they do is useful. Not
writing a masterpiece the first draft of your first novel doesn’t mean you’re a
bad writer, and it definitely doesn’t mean you never will. All writer’s talents
fluctuate; even those who started out strong have off periods.
Writing the first few thousand pages has a lot less to do
with whether or not you’re talented, but grasping an understanding of your
abilities, desires, differences, and the cultural norms and expectations of the
literary world. It’s about learning more about the world and yourself, and just
getting used to the changes of being an observer instead of a doer.
Sure, you might have lower learning curve. You might
subconsciously get something that you yourself couldn’t logically explain. Your
best work might come out of you in a single sitting, hashing out a
stream-of-conscious tirade. But the truth is, you can’t be bad at something you
just began. If you believe in natural talent and that your destiny will soon be
obvious, than at least be happy you don’t have to deal with the pain of
uncertainty. For the rest of us, it’s good to remember that talent is more
complex than we make it, and not immediately being great at something doesn’t
mean you should quit.
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