Magical Talent

When I was eleven, I thought I wanted to be a cartoonist. I loved humor, and I enjoyed reading the comics section of the paper every weeknight and especially on Sundays. I was not really a natural artist, however; I found translating the three-dimensional world I could see into the two-dimensional plane of lines on paper mysterious, a kind of magic trick I could observe but not perform.

Then I met Jeffrey, who sat next to me in 6th grade. He too wanted to be a cartoonist, and when he doodled out a man in a hat for me in his notebook, I was stunned. His looked like a real cartoon I’d see in the paper. He told me about an art store near our school where you could buy special pens and paper and about a book he bought that taught him how to draw men in hats as well dogs and birds and cars and many other things. I got the pens and the paper and the book and soon, with much practice, found I too could draw people and animals that looked something like the characters in the comic strips, though still not quite as well as my classmate.

Jeffrey went on to study art at the Rhode Island School of Design. By the time I was fourteen my interest in drawing had waned, replaced by a passion for writing. My desire to be a cartoonist did not diminish because I couldn’t draw as well as my friend. I had simply reached the end of that interest, whereas Jeffrey’s had only begun.

I think of Jeffrey, my first art teacher, whenever I hear people talk about talent. I understand why what we call talent seems to be inherent in someone, but in truth what we really mean when we say talent is skill, the ability to do something noticeably well. All skill, all facility, is learned. What is inherent is interest and passion, and it is that desire which draws to it magnetically the knowledge, the teachers, the books, and eventually the skill we need to execute that passion.

I can learn how to do pretty much anything well enough, but I can’t manufacture the desire necessary to master something. Mastery takes so much time, and involves so much disappointment and frustration and wrong paths that without that desire, without that love, I’ll simply abandon the pursuit when it starts getting difficult. Talent in others only seems magical because it’s always unique to them, and I will never be able to replicate exactly what they have mastered. Meanwhile, I cannot master writing; I can only master writing my stories, which, fortunately, remains mysteriously magical the more I learn.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com