Bye, Malcolm

That was exciting.  Wow.  From Kentucky clansmen to rice paddies to Korean airline pilots to Asian math kids.  And now we're done with Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers: A Story of Success.

I started class by talking about two "impertinent" questions: "What good is this" and "Is this good news?"  The first question, "What good is this," when addressed to Gladwell's book, might seem pushy or rude.  I don't think it is.  In fact, every writer should be asking this all the time.  "How does this apply to my writing" is the best question a writer can ask.  "How can this help me succeed as a writer"?  If writing is your priority, asking this question needs to be, too.

I argued that his book has a lot of implications for us as writers.  It talks about the conditions necessary for success, and puts down the idea that grit and determination is enough.  Instead, success depends on sustained critical practice, deep attitudes toward possibility and risk, sustained challenge (but not too much), visible success, a degree of autonomy, etc.

My second question was more or less simply "Should we worry"?  If Gladwell is right and we are in many ways handed our options -- rather creating success out of our will -- then is his story deterministic, even pessimistic?  Is there any hope?  Has he stripped us of our freedom to be become better writers?

Of course, I want to see it as a positive story.  If Gladwell is right, becoming a successful anything depends on luck -- but you can't know if you are lucky while you're in the thick of trying.  Faith -- or if that's too inflated of a word, hope -- is about all a writer has.  This leaves knowing or not knowing in the dust and leads to a question more useful than "Will I make it as a writer": it leads to "How do the successful succeed?"

Gladwell suggests that they have to move toward challenging problems, real tasks for a real community.  It means drills (and skills) are meaningless.  It means that being smarter is not better: there is a threshold above which predictions for success are not meaningful.  It means your community -- the writers you work with and know -- matter more than your GREs or SATs.  It means sustaining work as a writer -- not knowing "about" writing -- is the best thing you can do for your future career.

I collected papers today on your "heroes."  Thursday, we will look at the writing that begins your "unfamilar" genre.  Bring 10 copies.

DF