Talent, part 1

In last week’s post about how the muse can be a double-edged sword, I briefly mentioned talent. It relates to the muse in that it’s another thing writers often believe, correctly or not, that their writing comes from. But while the muse is poo-pooed by some, everyone is likely to believe in talent in some sense. It’s hard to buy into the idea that some universal artistic spirit is taking you over if you’re not inclined toward the mythical or the fantastic, but talent? Come on, who doesn't believe in talent?

I don’t—not in the sense that a lot of writers mean. I’m talking about talent in the sense of, “Am I talented? How do I know if I have talent? Doesn’t the Dunning-Kruger effect mean that if I’m not talented I have no way of knowing that? And if I can’t know for myself if I’m talented, don’t I need to take others’ word for it? But how do I know whose opinion to take seriously? Oh no! What if I’m so untalented that I can’t even pick the right people to tell me whether I’m talented?”

And so on and on and on.

I believe in talent the way I believe in gravity: it exists, but it doesn’t need me to believe in it or cheer it along in order for it to keep existing. And if I were to act against gravity (think of the little kid who jumps off the roof because he thinks he can fly like Superman) or against talent (pursing something I’m not talented in, I guess?), I’m not worried about harming gravity or talent. They’ll both be just fine. I’m worried about harming myself.

But is talent a natural law that, like the laws of physics, will result in your harm if you violate it? I don’t think so. Certainly your ego will be bruised if someone you admire says you have no talent, but it isn’t objectively injurious like a broken arm from an ill-conceived flight from the roof. This is because talent is not a law of nature. Instead, it is a construct that we use to explain why, for any given skill, one person will learn and apply that skill more readily than someone else.

Really, that’s all talent is. If you’re not talented, it doesn’t mean you can’t do something. It doesn’t mean you can’t improve. It just means you learn it less quickly than others who are considered talented—which may feel like a slap in the face, but again, that’s the result of a skewed perspective that prioritizes a construct as if it were a law of nature. It’s also the result of believing that someone else, not you, knows whether or not you should be writing. But nobody else knows. That decision is entirely in your hands, whether you’re George R.R. Martin or "untalented," that is, a slow learner.

And being a slow learner has its benefits. Check back next week for what these are—and how you can turn an admiration for talent into a dedication to learning.