10,000 Hours

Talent is a myth. I know, we all lionize the story of someone who comes out of nowhere and is “discovered” on natural ability alone.  That’s the plotline our media keeps feeding us, whether its on shows like American Idol, our cesspool of unreal reality shows, and even in old movies like the Natural.  But, more often than not, those overnight successes were years in the making.  So if it’s not God-given talent, what is the secret to success?  

Hard work.

Sorry, but that’s it.    

In fact, some say that it takes 10,000 hours to master your vocation.  So, if you want to be an accomplished concert pianist, you’ll need to put in 10,000 hours of practice before that will happen.  That theory came to prominence in Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Outliers, which he credits to a study by Anders Ericsson.  Now, it’s the title of a Macklemore and Ryan Lewis song, the iconoclastic rap duo from Seattle, Washington, who exploded on the music scene a few months ago, preaching authenticity and reeking of dogged determination.

10,000 hours.  That number has become symbolic, a temporal mantra to measure someone’s passion.  How else can we measure passion?  I’m no Euclid, but I offer this simple formula:   

Passion = (Love + Sacrifice) x Hard Work.   

Sure, there are people that are naturally better at certain things than others.  Maybe it takes 5,000 hours for some, 20,000 for others, or it just won’t happen at all (I’ll never be a high-flying NBA baller no matter how many hours I put it!).  But they won’t reach their true potential until they immerse themselves in dedication, the fanatical dedication it takes to achieve their higher calling in life.  That’s why I’ll get behind the passionate underdog who has a work ethic 8 feet tall.  Every single time. 

Mark Twain said that if you wanted to be a writer you should dedicate three years to it.  If by then you haven’t become accomplished, he said, then go chop wood. That’s about 10,000 hours.

Bill Gates contributes his success to the time that he sat in his garage and fiddled with circuit boards from 13 years old on, while other kids played baseball and went to the prom.  He put in his 10,000 hours.

Eminem would be in a trailer park if he hadn’t put in his 10,000 hours.  

Einstein would just be a clerk at a Swiss patent office.

We wouldn’t have Basquiat or Bukowski or the Beatles if they hadn’t put in their 10,000 hours.

However, this isn’t just ten thousand hours doing something.  So if you have a career, you can’t just add up your 40 hours a week and pop a bottle of champagne because you’ve “made it.”  It’s not about punching a clock.  Nor is it about commercial success, money, or media celebrity.  It never is.  It’s about love. 

10,000 hours is 600,000 minutes.  That’s a long time, in fact about 3 ½ years if you worked at it 8 hours a day, 7 days a week.  So if you are a tireless artist, musician, or have something you’re passionate about, how do you know when you’re getting close?  Because you can’t NOT do what you love; you’d rather put in your 10,000 hours than breath.

I’m putting in my 10,000 hours, now.  I’ve lost track a long time ago, but my best guess is that I’m about ¾ of the way there.

A few years ago I had it all – everything society tells us we should strive for, the stuff that's supposed to make us happy: a big house, fancy cars, and plenty of comfort and pleasure.  But every day I was stressing more and smiling less, turning to stone with boredom because it wasn’t my true purpose, which was writing.  And making the world a better place with that writing.  

So I sold or donated all of my possessions and moved down to Costa Rica to pursue my dream of being a writer.  And here I am, two years and two books later, thousands of pages and thousands of hours invested chasing my dream.  Sometimes writing is a beautiful process for me, chills running up my arms because it’s so sublime and pure, but scared shitless I won’t be able to write fast enough and all of that inspiration will disappear back into the heavens.

But more times than not, it’s just hard work.

What does it take to earn those 10,000 hours?  Everything.  Everything you’ve got, and then it demands more.  Your dream has no compassion; you work sick, you work hungry, your work cold.  You work at 4:37 am when it’s pitch black outside and all the sane people are asleep.  You work after midnight because you can’t stop.  It’s working your way into deliberate poverty, wearing the same jeans every day and buying your dinner at a gas station, sitting in the same seat in the same café every day with black coffee and a song on repeat your only companions.  10,000 hours means sacrifice, losing friends, giving up loving relationships, and people looking at you funny as you set yourself on society’s fringe.  It’s loneliness like a cold blade, cleaving into your gut and spilling your insides.  It’s committing the artist’s suicide – setting your humanity on fire until it burns to ashes, and then sifting through to find the essence of one eternal truth so you can hold it up high for the world to see.  It's being way too honest to ever go back.  

Any great art is just the rapid pursuit of failure, a spectacular failure because we'll never get it just right, but a funny thing happens as you rush passionately towards impossibility: you fall in love with it, over and over, and you wouldn’t change a thing.  You turn the concept of logic inside out and bend the universe into reality by sheer willpower.  You break through. 

And at that point you look up and realize you’re no longer alone.  In the process you’ve become connected to all of the others who’ve put in 10,000 hours to reach their dreams, the great artists and passionate souls, living or dead, and even those who are putting in their 10,000 right now.  You can see it in their eyes – no, feel it when they enter a room.  It’s like a big family, and the closer you get the more you realize they’ve been by your side the whole time, reaching out to you at the most forlorn moments, 10,000 hands holding you up because you were utterly exhausted and ready to call it quits. They gave you an ember of their fire so yours wouldn’t go out, and with that you had the strength to go on.  One. More. Hour.    

And what happens after you hit those 10,000 hours?  There’s no celebration, there’s no parade.  Confetti doesn’t fall from the ceiling.  You wake up too early and drink coffee and go about your day, just like any other.  But something feels different – it all glows.  You are part of it now, and it, of you.  So you dedicate 10,000 hours more to it, and then 10,000 days, and, if they had it, you’d give 10,000 lifetimes to that thing you love, because it is the reason you were created.

The victory of 10,000 hours is for those of you who won’t rest until they place their star up in the night sky.  And when you’re gone, as we all will be sooner or later, that constellation is what you’ll leave the world.

10,000 hours.  “A life lived for art has never been a life wasted,” as Macklemore raps.

But this isn’t for everyone, believe me.  It’s perfectly ok not to want it that bad.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting a balance of comfort and achievement, a normal existence; sitting on the couch watching TV and washing the car on Saturday.  Sometimes I wish that I could do that.  Hell, a lot of people will achieve far more success than me just based on their natural ability or the blessings of chance.  And we can all agree that a life of balance and moderation is certainly a noble pursuit. 

But for the rest of you, those with blood on your faces and sweat on your brows who are putting in your 10,000 hours, my 10,000 soldiers who want to crank up the music, smash through the walls, who will cut off your ear for your passion, for those of you who refuse to acknowledge the word “no” until your supernova burns brightly, gather round.  Leave your things behind - we won’t be back anytime soon.  And come with me.  

We have work to do.


-Norm Schriever

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 10,000 Hours by Ryan and Macklemore

I hope that God decides to talk through him
That the people decide to walk with him
Regardless of Pitchfork cosigns I've jumped
Make sure the soundman doesn't cockblock the drums
Let the snare knock the air right out of your lungs
And those words be the oxygen
Just breathe
Hey man, regardless I'mma say it
Felt like I got signed the day that I got an agent
Got an iTunes check, shit man I'm paying rent
About damn time that I got out of my basement
About damn time I got around the country and I hit these stages
I was made to slay them
Ten thousand hours I'm so damn close I can taste it
On some Malcolm Gladwell, David Bowie meets Kanye shit
This is dedication
A life lived for art is never a life wasted
Ten thousand

Ten thousand hours felt like ten thousand hands
Ten thousand hands, they carry me

Now, now, now
This is my world, this is my arena
The tv told me something different I didn't believe it
I stand here in front of you today all because of an idea
I could be who I wanted if I could see my potential
And I know that one day I'mma be him
Put the gloves on, sparring with my ego
Everyone's greatest obstacle, I beat him, celebrate that achievement
Got some attachments, some baggage I'm actually working on leaving
See, I observed Escher, I love Basquiat
I watched Keith Haring, you see I studied art
The greats weren't great because at birth they could paint
The greats were great cause they paint a lot
I will not be a statistic, just let me be
No child left behind, that's the American scheme
I make my living off of words
And do what I love for work
And got around 980 on my SATs
Take that system, what did you expect?
Generation of kids choosing love over a desk
Put those hours in and look at what you get
Nothing that you can hold, but everything that it is

Ten thousand
Ten thousand hours felt like ten thousand hands
Ten thousand hands, they carry me

Same shit, different day, same struggle
Slow motion as time slips through my knuckles
Nothing beautiful about it, no light at the tunnel
For the people that put the passion before them being comfortable
Raw, unmedicated heart no substitute
Banging on table tops, no subs to toot
I'm feeling better than ever man, what is up with you?
Scraping my knuckles, I'm battling with some drug abuse
I lost another friend, got another call from a sister
And I speak for the people that share that struggle too
Like they got something bruised
My only rehabilitation was the sweat, tears and blood when up in the booth
It's the part of the show where it all fades away
When the lights go to black and the band leaves the stage
And you wanted an encore but there's no encore today
Cause the moment is now, can't get it back from the grave.
Part of the show - it all fades away
Lights go to black - band leaves the stage.

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