Overinvolved and the "It" Factor

Already this morning, I have

1. Flushed out an overflowing sewer line

2. Cleaned up a pile of old dog puke I discovered hiding in a corner

3. Forgotten to make my son's lunch for his last day of school

*sigh*

I asked my wife about the talent question yesterday. Here's what she said, "Of course talent exists. You know it does. You're just engaging in an intellectual exercise because you're argumentative. That's what you do. It's annoying. Anyway, people who say talent doesn't really exist are probably those who have it. You don't know how fortunate you are because you've known since you were about 5 what you should be doing with your life. Trust me, if you were still wondering what you should do when you grow up, you'd believe in talent because you'd wish you had it."

Um, thanks?

On a related note, I do believe in the "it" factor. And it's obvious as all get out when someone has "it." Let's take American Idol (nod to Erica from the comments). Personally, I couldn't stand Adam Lambert this season. I mean, let's be honest, the guy was a lousy singer. He screamed through most of his range, and vamped through the rest. I've heard much, much, much better technical singers in the church choir down the street. But it was also undeniable that Adam had "it." He had (for me) an annoyingly magnetic stage presence. You couldn't take your eyes off him.

It's the same way with writers. I can usually tell in a few pages if I'm going to like a writer. The first time I was exposed to Ian McEwan, it was like discovering chocolate. One bite, and I was in. And it has little to do with the story. I'm a huge Nabakov fan, and his best-known story is an odious romp through pedophilia. By contrast, I rarely read intricately plotted thrillers, like the ones produced by Tom Clancy or Robert Ludlum or Richard North Patterson (and don't even get me started on James Patterson). I recognize these guys are good (even great) plotters, but for me, the voice just isn't there, and I don't really care about guns, police procedure, military technology or international plots to blow up the world. It bores me.

My wife is right (as usual) that if someone asked me if F. Scott Fitzgerald was talented--and I wasn't dug into an argument--I would answer, "Extravagantly. Ridiculously. Gratuitously." Because he has "it."

So you tell me. What does "it" for you?

Is Talent Real?

We had a party to go to Sunday night and I fell into conversation with a professional artist ... at one point, he was saying that he firmly believes anyone can learn to draw. "It's all eye/hand coordination. If you can tie your shoes or thread a needle, you can draw. Then all you need to learn is the basic forms and how perspective works."

I thought about this for a second, then asked him, "Do you believe in talent?"

No, he said. He doesn't. "It's all practice. Talent is just another word for lots of practice." This was coming from a guy who, by my measure, is a talented artist and makes his living drawing. But there he was, disavowing his own talent.

I've seen this question asked a few places, and it seems that the people who defend talent the most vocally are amateurs or earlier in their journey. I don't mean that in a disparaging way, but most of the professionals I know put much more stock in hard work, in grinding it out day in and day out, than they do in pure talent.

Here's what I think: maybe talent is just another word for being born with certain attributes that support a certain endeavor. You know. A kid shoots up to 7'2" when he's 18 and goes into the NBA. His height isn't talent, but it makes it possible for him to play ball. Or a student has an excellent memory for 3D shapes and texture ... a possible sculptor hidden in the mix? A kid is born with perfect pitch. Or an excellent memory. If you choose to press these attributes into the pursuit of a certain profession, viola! You're talented.

Big whoop.

If it even exists at all, I think what we call talent is merely the key to entry. At some point in any artistic endeavor, pretty much everybody you meet is going to have talent, or whatever passes for it. I can pretty much guarantee there's nobody on the New York Times best-seller list who isn't an accomplished and highly skilled writer. So like my artist friend said, it really does come down to hard work ... and talent is beside the point, an afterthought.

The Corner

Earlier this morning, I typed "THE END" on my revision draft. For newcomers, I'm working on a requested revision for a manuscript under consideration. No contract. Ha ha. Because every writer loves noncontractual revisions (even typing the words sends shivers down my spine).

This has been interesting process, almost totally unfamiliar to me. You tell me: ever had a revision like this?

The Stages of My Revision

First, I read the rewrite letter and think, "Holy Cow! Can I even do this? Is this possible? Do I even WANT to do this?"

Then I think, "The least I can do is try. Maybe I'll sell this thing. And even if it's not exactly the same book I started with, there's still a good book in there with the editor's revisions."

I'm an outliner, so I mapped out a general direction and started writing. Then it got interesting. It was going along OK at first, but then I basically chucked my outline and just started feeling my way through it. This was new to me. But I knew the world really well, and I knew the outcomes, etc. It was new, kinda exciting, and it meant I had to ask a lot of questions of my characters.

Then, BOOM!

My confidence just cratered. I mean bottomed out. And that's a weird thing for me. Truly, I'm generally a confident writer. I don't mean in the sense that I'm always thinking, "Ha ha! A masterpiece! A best-seller! I RULE!" I mean in the sense that I almost always know where I'm going, how to get there, how to move.

But I kept writing through it. I didn't talk much about it to anyone, and I stopped blogging or commenting on blogs. I just wrote my way through the worst failure in self-confidence I've ever experienced. It suuuuccckked.

Then I started nearing the end, and I gained a little perspective. I realized what was throwing me off: I wanted the book to "feel" a certain way. I wanted it to be immersed in a certain emotional vapor field, and it was close, but not there. And even this was an epiphany. I've never really approached a book like that. I've always wanted to make sure all the many intricate pieces fit together like a clock. When it clicks, I'm done. I've never approached a book and said, "I'm not done until I'm feeling you, oh my brother."

The cloud lifted. Weird. I know.

I'm finished now, and I don't love it yet like one of my own, but I think I can feel my way forward from here. I think I know where it still needs work, where I'm not being really ... well, honest with my story.

It's been quite a learning experience. Like I said, I've never approached a book like this before ... ever. I've never allowed myself to fall into that kind of black hole, and I'm really glad I pushed my way through and kept writing. That's one of the things I got out of this. And here's the other: just when you think you're comfortable with your process, there's a whole new level.