A Quiet Gift
Recently on a discussion board, somebody posted her belief that there is no such thing as “gifted.” The gist of the conversation was that she believed successful (read: published) authors do not have a “gift” for writing-there is no such thing; that, because storytelling is innate to the human nature, anyone who works hard, studies the craft, and perseveres will, ultimately, get published. If they fail at this, it’s because they gave up too soon.
Say what?
So you see, none of us are gifted. None of us are born with a talent for creating characters and worlds and believable plots. Tabula rasa comes to mind: we are born a blank slate. How dare we presume that we’ve been given a gift for words? I imagine this poster doesn’t limit it to writing; probably no one is born with a talent for art, or music, or singing, or math. I suppose if I start taking voice lessons tomorrow (or music or acting lessons) and work really, really hard, in about 10 years or so I’ll be bellowing out “Mio Babbino Caro” at the Met. Maybe one day I’ll play the cello alongside Yo-Yo Ma or star in a film opposite Meryl Streep and Robert DeNiro-none of whom were born with any talent, of course; they simply worked their butts off and “knew the right people” (another one of this poster’s peculiar statement). Maybe I can't tell an atom from an ion, but if I enroll at MIT and devote my life to science, I could be the next Stephen Hawking if I just stick with it.
I don’t think any of us sit around and marvel at our own earth-shattering awesomeness. We don’t dance through the streets, singing, “I have talent! I can write!” We also recognize that while there are those who may not write as well as we do, there are hundreds, thousands of authors who can write circles around us. We read their words, and weep at our own inadequacies, thinking: I will never write that well, not in a million years.
We know this. We accept this. It doesn’t minimize our own talent-because talent is what it is. Call it genetics, call it a gift from God, call it a weird cosmic fluke, but yes, we’re born with it.
We hear it first as small children, telling stories to our siblings or playmates. They stare, wide-eyed, and beg for more. Our parents chuckle and say, “Oh, she has such an imagination!” That’s when we learn for the first time that having an “imagination” makes us, well, kind of special. No, imagination isn’t everything. But that’s how it starts.
At eight, as I tossed out witty one-liners during dinner one night, my father warned, “You keep that up, you’re gonna be a comedian one of these days.” Little did he know that my zingers weren’t destined for the stage, but for future stories.
Later, we hear it from our teachers when we turn in essays with nearly perfect grammar and punctuation, often with dialogue throw in. Why do we always find it impossible to stay within the mandatory page limit, while our classmates struggle to squeeze out half a page? Our teachers assure us, “You should be a writer when you grow up,” as we gaze happily at our bold red A+. When we exchange papers with our classmates, we’re horrified by the errors. Why can’t they spell? Why can’t they figure out where the commas go? Why do their stories, well, pretty much suck?
In high school and college we might struggle with math and science, but find English courses a breeze and ace every one. Instructors ask permission to keep some of our work to use in future classes, as examples of good writing. By then we’ve figured out that, yes, we do have a talent, an ability to create stories that others want to read. We wonder: is it possible? Am I really this good?
Often we’re torn between pride and embarrassment. After all, we’ve been taught from a young age not to boast about our abilities. “Bragging is vulgar,” we’re told. “Don’t show off.” So we quietly relish our gift and keep it close to our heart-one of the reasons, possibly, that many authors are uncomfortable with self-promotion. We bite the bullet and struggle to put ourselves in the spotlight, noticing at the same time those who don’t possess the gift-either competent and technically correct writers who lack the ability to command a reader’s attention, or those who are simply inept, awful writers-make up the majority of writers out there screaming, “Look at me! I wrote a book!” These are ones who spam message boards with orders for us to click on their website and read incomprehensible excerpts. They send out mass e-mails to total strangers, begging for sales.They publicly bash the publishing industry for not recognizing the talent they’re convinced they have, when, in fact, nothing they’ve written reveals that talent.
To insinuate to us that we don’t have a gift, that the only reason we’re published is because we “got lucky” or happened to “know the right people”-well, I guess it’s best to merely consider the source. We know how we got there, and why. Not once have we ever taken our “gift” for granted; we revel in it, but humbly so, and work hard, ever so hard, to cultivate it.
Not a day goes by that we don’t say thank you in our hearts.