On Talent

I've been getting more and more compliments lately about my writing. And I don't really know how to respond beyond saying thank you. It's always a sincere thank you. Because the compliments and praise beat back the self-doubt and constant questioning for a couple hours. I am always earnest in my thanks. And I'm not singling any one person out. No one person or comment inspired this post.

But the word choice often makes me pause. "You're so talented." "You are extremely gifted." Never: "You work so hard." "You must have taken a long time to write this." Almost always talent. Always God-given, uncontrollable, unreachable gifts. Not hard work.

I think of myself as a good writer. Not great, not excellent, but certainly with some understanding of what writing is — the process, the goal, all that. None of which came naturally.

What those who tell me how "extremely talented" I am don't see: the 300+ books I've read in the last three years, the 650+ blog posts I've written, the three days it took me to write the frat post, the months of internal monologue and the four days of wall-staring it took me to write the shaker thing, the pacing, the walks alone, the constant considering and internal reworking, the TV I don't watch, the video games I don't play, the ancillary acquaintances I don't have.

So when anyone approaches anything I do with reverence and asks how? I nod and smile. Because I know how. At least the majority of how.

Not to say talent is a myth and we're all blank slates who can achieve any height simply through hard work. I don't think any amount of work can transform you into a Kafka or a Faulkner or a David Foster Wallace. Talent is real. We're not all created equal.

But I do believe if you keep showing up, and you keep trying really, really hard, especially when no one is making you, good things will happen.

+++

Walking through the boob-less bra section of the Auburn Walmart carrying two Mexican microwavable dinners and a $3 bottle of wine at 2 a.m. after leaving work is a great reminder to try hard.

+++

Esquire contributor Chris Jones on self-doubt and writerly fear.

+++

Cooper is in the living room raping his big blue pillow and grunting.