The Art of Deliberate Practice

About three decades ago, at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, Professor William Chase and a postdoctoral fellow named Anders Ericsson posited an interesting theory. They argued that our innate talents — whether it’s playing the violin, winning at chess, or running a Fortune 500 company — aren’t really innate at all. After many years of research and conducting dozens of experiments, they concluded that the individuals we perceive as “geniuses” — Mozart, Tiger Woods, Itzhak Perlman, to name a few — become who they are through “deliberate practice,” not thanks to some miraculous higher power.

That means thousands and thousands of hours of hard work. Tiger Woods wasn’t born a gifted golf champion. His father, a pro golfer himself, started training him at age three. Mozart’s music wasn’t merely handed down to him by God; the composer rewrote his music numerous times, trying to perfect it as he went along. Violinists like Itzhak Perlman accumulated at least 10,000 hours of practice in 10 years before he finally mastered his art. In one study, Chase and Ericsson proved that great memory can be cultivated — anyone, at any level, can improve their memory skills, not just math wizards and chess players.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that no one succeeds unless they work hard. But what separates the “ordinary” people from so-called “gifted” people, Chase and Ericsson suggest, isn’t some magical inborn quality; it’s deliberate practice. According to Geoff Colvin, author of the book Talent is Overrated:

Deliberate practice “is designed specifically to improve performance, often with a teacher’s help; it can be repeated a lot; feedback on results is continuously possible; it’s highly demanding mentally, whether the activity is purely intellectual, such as chess or business-related activities, or heavily physical, such as sports; and it isn’t much fun.”

Deliberate practice equals high performance. I understand now why many of my teachers believed I was a “gifted” writer and artist. But my talents weren’t gifts bestowed upon me at birth. I was a good writer because I wrote every single day — journals, essays, school newspaper articles, letters — I even created newsletters that I sent to one of my cousins regularly. I started my first collection of short stories in second grade. And I excelled at art because, at 6, I began drawing pictures on a regular basis. I was practicing deliberately without realizing it.

In retrospect, it makes sense why, in film school, my editing and shooting assignments often stood out (one of my professors once told me he had no doubt that I would one day “make it”). Prior to film school, as a teenager, I shot and edited numerous silly little short films; I volunteered at a local broadcasting station and taught myself video production; during my spare time I wrote dozens of awful screenplays. I didn’t wait until film school to learn the craft of filmmaking.  

My point here isn’t to boost my own ego. Far from it. For the last few years I’ve been racked with self-doubt and uncertainty about my future. I’ve never had any doubts about my own talent, but here’s what I’ve realized: I haven’t been working hard enough. And you out there, whoever is reading this: keep working your ass off. Double the amount of time you spend on pursuing your dreams. Stop wallowing in fear and laziness. Surgeons don’t become surgeons after a year of med school; it takes up to 10 years. It’s a mistake to believe we can achieve overnight success simply by wanting it. You’ve gotta get out there on the field and train like crazy. We may never truly know where talent comes from, but what we know for sure is this: deliberate practice pays off.

Hello, Peter Pan!

I realized recently that, even though I have grown spiritually and intellectually over the years, I am still, in essence, the same person I was at the age of 12. I was in sixth grade then, already facing the frustrating vicissitudes of young adulthood, struggling with my self-identity while my classmates — the “normal” kids — played basketball. There was an adolescent rage in me that I still can’t quite explain, but I suspect it had something to do with a deep loneliness coupled with a nascent tendency to over-analyze my own psyche. I was starved for platonic intimacy. Any friendships I managed to cultivate were short-lived.

Do people really change? We all have the ability to grow as human beings; our civilization as we know it would be impossible without the rewards of personal growth. But if you look back at the kid you used to be and compare him or her with the adult you are now, what differences do you see? I believe that our perception of the world and ourselves changes (hopefully for the better), but our souls remain quintessentially the same.

Of course, I am no longer that angry and confused 12-year-old boy. I have taken peaceful solitude over bitter loneliness, gratefulness over festering anger, compassion over childish malevolence. Sometimes, though, there are moments when I find myself regressing, caught up in drama as if I were still that angst-ridden kid, and that’s when I realize that little boy is still here, seeking coherency in a world of puzzling yet joyful complexity. Maybe what I’m trying to say is that, ultimately, we never really grow up.

Finding the light

When I first heard Plato’s cave allegory many years ago, I was struck with a profound sense of awe. It was as if Plato had risen from the dead and spoken directly to me. In this passage from The Republic, Plato’s wise mentor, Socrates, tells us about a group of men shackled in a cave. A fire burns behind them as they face the wall, staring at shadows of objects projected in front of them. The men perceive the shadows as reality, for this is all they have seen their entire lives.

One man, however, manages to unchain himself and escape from the cave. When he first steps into the real world, he is blinded by the brightness of the sun. But gradually his eyes adjust, and he begins to see the true nature of things. It becomes clear to him that the world of the cave is not the real world at all. The man rushes back to tell his friends about this shocking discovery, but the men only scoff at him, and some even react with anger, for they believe that there is no other reality than the shadows in front of them.

To this day, the allegory of the cave remains startlingly complex and thought-provoking. Many people, in their own way, live inside that cave, staring at nothing but their own false reality and unable to accept anything else. The man who escaped from that cave symbolizes more than mere physical freedom; he represents the knowledge one must have to grow spiritually and intellectually as human beings, to free ourselves from the confines of society.

Enlightenment cannot be attained without self-knowledge. The shadows on the wall of the cave represent fear and ignorance. How many people do you know are unable to see anything beyond those shadows? How many are unwilling to grow and accept something bigger than themselves?

For years, I too, was stuck in this cave. Sometimes, during times times of frustration I even find myself back inside, hiding from reality. But the light! It shines on us despite all the madness. The light is the truth, and to live in a world without it is to become a shadow on a wall, forever confined to obscurity.

Getting a ‘Sense of the World’

In 1821, James Holman was blind when he traveled the world and followed his dreams, yet he still had the capacity to experience the environment more boldly and passionately than many of his peers. He was sightless, yes, but his vision remained quite clear. In Jason Roberts‘ stirring and inspiring biography, “A Sense of the World,” we embark on Holman’s journey toward self-fulfillment and satisfying his life’s ambitions. The man lost his sight at the age of 25, and yet he never allowed this tragic adversity to overcome him.

How many of us give up when faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles, settling for a life of complacency and bitterness? While reading about Holman’s travails, I realized how easy it is for us to lose ourselves while trying so very hard to find ourselves. It’s ironic; we desire a life without pain, yet instead of making positive choices, we take the alternate route, a destructive path of self-inflicted agony and despair.

James Holman was blind, but he was unstoppable. He kept his dreams alive, and in turn, his dreams kept him alive.

What is success?

What is success?

Ralph Fiennes says it’s all about showing love, word by word, gesture by gesture. I agree with him, but I don’t think I’ve practiced that very much. Seems like these days I’m more concerned about when I’m going to “make it” in this business.

But that leads to the question, what does it really mean to “make it”? Again, does it go back to love? I don’t know the answer to that, but I can say from experience that it feels good to do something, well, good.

I imagine that when I become a famous filmmaker I’ll be doing a lot for the young ones who are struggling like I am right now. This may sound like a paradox — L.A., after all, isn’t known as the City of Altruism — but I want to succeed in this business so that I can give. Whether it’s through a film that inspires an audience or helping an aspiring screenwriter find his or her voice, I guess that’s love, isn’t it?

“It’s not who you are underneath, it’s what you do that defines you.”

- Rachel Dawes

Life in comedy

What I loved about doing improv comedy — besides being onstage and the center of attention — was that it forced me to let go of my inhibitions and allow spontaneity to take over. Of course, the funny thing is, what appeared to be spontaneous on stage was, in reality, not so spontaneous at all. It was the result of learning the art and craft of improv. It was about being in the moment, taking what you’ve learned, and making something out of it. You are the writer, actor, and editor all at the same time.

I especially loved the thrill of making the audience laugh. The best moments happen organically. The worst is when you feel yourself forcing the jokes, because improv comedy, ironically, is not about “making” jokes. It’s about telling the truth; be truthful and don’t worry about “being funny” when you’re onstage. Magic occurs when being funny is the least of your concerns.

The same thing can be applied to life. When you aren’t focused on your self all the time, the world — the stage — is a better place. Lighter, happier, funnier. Allowing your mind to become entangled in drama worsens your performance. You stumble, lose focus, and everything starts to go downhill. But when you listen and stay in the moment, just like actors must do onstage, something special and wonderfully mysterious happens. You don’t even have to do any work. You’re just there, taking it in, living and breathing it.

True leadership is a rare thing

It occurred to me recently that almost none of the supervisors I have worked with in the past knew a single thing about leadership or management. One of them, the editor of an entertainment news Web site, communicated strictly through IM — even with staff members she sat directly across from. And if an employee took initiative or demonstrated even an ounce of ambition, she shot them down almost instantly.

Any notion of change seemed to rile her up, as if new ideas were deadly viruses. Teamwork and staff morale were clearly of no importance to her. At 6 a.m. she clocked in, left her humanity behind, and performed her duties like a blind, faithful servant. She was in it, I believe, for the money. Even though, the money, I suspect, wasn’t very good — in her mid-30s, she was living in a house full of roommates.

She was unqualified to be editor-in-chief, but thanks to nepotism, she had been in the position for over seven years. This was a woman whose every action was based on fear — fear of losing her job, fear of change, fear of anything outside her comfort zone. Because of office politics, none of the staff ever mustered the courage to challenge her ways. I did attempt to cause a ripple through a few honest e-mails, but the woman treated them like spam.

What I learned was this: true and effective leadership is rare. Not everyone has it in them. It’s unfortunate when those who do have it are stifled and silenced, their ideas unwelcome, their skills undervalued.

The downfall of Friendster

Silicon Valley’s former “It” guy, Jonathan Abrams, the founder of Friendster, tells his story to Inc. magazine. It’s a sobering tale about the rise and fall of one of the first social networking Web sites, as well as a profound lesson about misguided choices, recovering from adversity and learning from mistakes.