Writing Wednesdays
The 10,000 Hour Rule
By Steven Pressfield | Published: November 9, 2011
I’m not sure whether Malcolm Gladwell was the first to identify this principle or was simply responsible for popularizing it. But his name is definitely associated with it.
The rule says that in order for an individual to master any complex skill, be it brain surgery or playing the cello, she must put in 10,000 hours of focused practice. Since a thousand hours seems to be more or less the maximum we humans can handle in one year, ten thousand hours equals ten years.
Of course there are exceptions. Tatum O’Neal won an Oscar at age nine. But, from my own observation, I’d say that ten-year figure is about right.
But what exactly are we learning when we’re beating our brains out all those years? What was Charles Bukowski learning while he was boozing and wenching and sorting mail at the P.O.? What was Henry Miller accomplishing in Brooklyn and Paris? Or Miyamoto Musashi dueling all those samurai swordsmen?
Skill, certainly. Patience, professionalism, many other things. But it was something much more subtle—and far more difficult. I almost hesitate to write about this, in that it borders on the mysterious and the sacred. I must silently (or not so silently) beseech the Muse’s permission.
What these masters were learning was to speak in their own voice. They were learning to act as themselves. In my opinion, this is the hardest thing in the world.
I understand why Zen masters give their students koans, i.e. unsolvable, logic-defying riddles. They are trying to crack open the young aspirants’ minds by making them hurl themselves over and over into a brick wall of futility until they finally and inevitably give up … and inexplicably succeed.
To speak in one’s own voice means to let go of all the other voices in our heads. Whose voices? The voices of what is expected of us. Yes, that means the voices of our parents, teachers, mentors. But it means something more elusive too. It means our own expectations of what we should be doing or ought to be thinking—what is “normal” or “right” or “the way it ought to be.”
“If you meet the Buddha on the road,” says the master, “kill him.”
In terms of the aspiring writer, we sit down and try to write the way we think writers write. If we’re painting, we paint like painters paint—or dance like dancers dance. What this means of course is that we’re writing like somebody else writes and painting like somebody else paints and dancing like somebody else dances.
The agony of an artistic apprenticeship comes from our inability to bust out of this self-imposed prison. People tell us to “break the rules” or “think outside the box.” But how the hell do you do that when you’re trying to? You can’t. It’s a koan. It’s impossible.
How does the actor get past his own excruciating self-consciousness? How does the entrepreneur come up with an idea that’s really new? The answer is they both beat their heads against the wall over and over and over until finally, from pure exhaustion, they can’t “try” any more and they just “do.” The writer says fuck it and writes a sentence in a way he would never imagine himself writing a sentence, and to his amazement that sentence is the first real sentence he’s ever written.
The price of achieving that breakthrough is time. Time and effort. Ten thousand hours if you’re lucky, more if you’re not. The gods are watching for those ten thousand hours, like instructors at Navy SEALs training. They can tell when we’re faking and they can tell when we’re for real. They can pick out those of us who really want it from those who are only pretending.
The worst part is there’s no guarantee. Put in your 10,000 hours in medical school and they hand you a scroll of parchment and call you a doctor. But try to make a movie, or write a symphony or paint a picture.
In the end those ten thousand hours must be their own reward—which is the way it ought to be, don’t you think?
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Very nicely stated. The 10,000-hour rule has rapidly become so over-mentioned that it’s in danger of becoming a cliche, and/but you’ve done a nice job here of bringing out what its central principle really means/involves/entails for writers and other artists. The whole thing always reminds me of what Ray Bradbury said in “Zen in the Art of Writing”: “Have you trained yourself so that you can say what you want to say without getting hamstrung?…We are working not for work’s sake, producing not for production’s sake. What we are trying to do is to find a way to release the truth that lies in all of us.”
When I was a teenager I remember people telling me to “just be myself.” Even then that confounded me. I didn’t even know where to start. I think that ‘becoming’ is a life long endeavour and even when it looks like we finally know something for sure, it is merely the beginning of a very long journey. I keep trying to remind myself that the gift is in the opportunity to authentically try, and that there is no finish line. I think the very real challenge is to do as you depict so beautifully in “The War of Art” – to attempt to shed peripherals and access one’s essential truths, cloak them in haunting real life images with layered dialogue that both reveals and shields, and somehow allow these characters to grow, to ‘become’ on screen and in print, on the precise journey we are struggling with ourselves. Easy.
Never heard of the 10,000 hour rule! Always learning something from this site — the best part is it gets you thinking!
With the ballet training I have had there is a point where you are working so hard and you feel you are getting nowhere and actually you feel you are getting worse and then it happens, you cross over and you are improved — your technique has new strength and ease. Actually, for me, I could hear and feel the music better — then I was able to put some feeling and artistry into it…no mechanical steps but actual dancing! Of course, in ballet you have to always practice or it goes away.
Tina: Thanks for this comment. It expressed something i’ve felt from time to time with my writing–that feeling that you’re not making any progress or even getting worse. It helped me to be more hopeful that maybe somethng good lies ahead if I keep on going…
The 10,000 hour rule came from studies in motor learning looking at mastery. (It actually may be based on the time required to learn to roll a specific cigar shape by hand! Bless them.) The mathematical rule of thumb is 1.5 times overlearning after mastery. For example, if I need 100 repetions to learn how to free throw correctly, I need another 150 reps after that to “master” it. As a Marine and law enforcement professional and trainer this rule held up pretty well when designing training programs and fighting for time and resources.
Jay Lee,
Thank you for the insight on the “10,000 Hour Rule” It seems like you pass a point where it becomes “second nature.” Never thought of it in terms of hours.
Exactly what I am going through. Exactly.
Scott, those are two pretty good sentences. I like ‘em.
I remember reading the 10,000-hour rule years ago in Creative Minds, a book by Howard Gardner. He said that the first breakthroughs in an art happen after ten years of solid practice, and then the masterpieces come after another ten years.
A very insightful article indeed.
While reading the Steve Jobs biography I have somewhat felt the same about him. Initially he was following many folks in his spiritual and business persuits but later he carved a nitche for himself.
Great stuff.
I know about the 10,000 hours rule, and sometimes it’s downright terrifying…I’m glad that banging my head against the wall counts towards my 10,000 hrs.
The irony: the work should be its own reward, but is it too grandiose to think we’d like it to be successful…and (gasp!) even make a living at it?
Mastery feels like a dying commodity Steve. We’ve built a society of immediate gratification and false fulfillment. We eat fast foods and are left hungry, we fcuk fast broads and are left lonely. Who really has the time (or inclination) to write everyday for ten years? I want a best seller now…
The fact is that anybody that’s counting down the hours will never be a master of their craft. They aren’t obsessive enough. Their work doesn’t haunt them. They are not afflicted.
Gladwell’s number is interesting, but only for academic discussion. Anybody that needs his number as an excuse to set down and get busy simply isn’t cut out for the game he’s trying to play. Like you said, the Muses can tell.
I love the way you put it Brandon. Particularly the line, “Their work doesn’t haunt them.” To submit to being haunted, to become more familiar with how to ‘go in deep’ than subsisting on the surface. The reconciliation of those two lives and spaces is both exhilirating and excruciating, not unlike the bends experienced by divers.