When Your Taste Outpaces Your Talent

Advice for the uncomfortable stage every creative has to survive

This summer, I have the good fortune of participating in a weekly writing workshop led by one of my favorite authors: Rumaan Alam.

It’s been an incredible experience so far. I love hearing Rumaan’s thoughts in the context of the work we’re analyzing, and discovering overlap in how each member of our group defines “good writing.” The workshop model is a reminder that while writing is solitary work, developing our craft doesn’t have to be. Others’ observations can help strengthen our critical eye and teach us to appreciate craft moves that might otherwise be invisible.

What’s more, digesting all this great writing has felt a little like falling in love.

I emerge from each Tuesday night session starry-eyed and waxing poetic about everything from sentence structure and style to verb choice. It’s a physiological response I can only describe as swooning — an indication of how much I enjoy this work.

But consuming great writing is also overwhelming. The longer I fix my gaze on it, the more I find myself toggling between two mindsets:

1. Writing is a science. All you have to do is blend each chemical compound (or story element) with precision and follow the directions step by step.

2. Writing is magic. No matter how hard one works, studies, or revises, there is no way to master a skill that transcends understanding.

I imagine the truth lives somewhere between these two binaries, but who knows? Great writing is inherently mystifying. Those of us who aspire to it are prone to asking,

“Will I ever write like that?” and “Oh, god. What if I don’t?”

The gap between taste and talent

This week, we’re diving into an experience every creative can relate to: bridging the gap between our taste and talent.

Whether it’s writing, visual arts, dance, or another art form, an interesting thing happens on the way to improving our craft: Our taste improves before our skill.

Imagine, for example, the sommelier, who, in a previous life, was perfectly happy sipping Yellowtail. Exposure to great wine will inevitably refine that sommelier’s palate beyond the kangaroo label, but it won’t translate into making great wine.

The same process of discernment happens to writers. Most of us begin as readers, then grow into big fans of books. We resonate first with a story's emotionality — that sticky residue of great storytelling — or with a plot so enthralling that it demands to be read.

Only once we’re hooked on reading will we have any interest in learning how the sausage gets made. It’s at that point that we begin to live as much outside the story as inside it. With coaching, we notice the shape of the story, the author’s language choices, the inclusion/exclusion of details, and so forth. With time, these observations shift our standards. What constitutes “good writing” must meet a higher bar. No longer satisfied by the literary equivalent of Yellowtail, writers find themselves reaching for new bookshelves.

Developing our taste takes time.

So long, in fact, that a writer may despair when they reach the next phase: realizing that their aptitude lags behind their palate.

Here’s radio host Ira Glass’s take on this phenomenon:

All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But it’s like there is this gap. For the first couple years that you’re making stuff, what you’re making isn’t so good. It’s not that great. It’s trying to be good, it has ambition to be good, but it’s not that good.

But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is good enough that you can tell that what you’re making is kind of a disappointment to you. A lot of people never get past that phase. They quit.

Dissatisfaction is a sign of growth

We rarely conceive of dissatisfaction as a good thing, but as learners, it serves an important purpose.

Back in 2020, an idea for a novel, one inspired by the strange pandemic moment we were living through, landed fully formed in my head. Never before had I received an idea so technicolor sharp that it was as if it had swaggered into the room wearing a tux and tails, with a note attached that read, “WRITE ME.” So, I did what any lucky writer would do: I got to work.

A year later, I completed the first draft of that novel. It was an ambitious project involving multiple POVs, cross-connected subplots, and extremely delicate themes. On the day I typed the final sentence, I closed my laptop and awaited the triumphant feeling I’d anticipated next.

But a different feeling nagged at me instead. A polite but direct whisper that insisted, That’s not it.

After several months and frustrating stabs at revision, it was time to admit: I did not possess the skills to tell a story of that magnitude.

The story deserved a justice I could not deliver. Better to banish it to a desk drawer than to hurl it half-baked into the universe, where it might do harm.

The awareness that we’re not there yet is a testament to the discernment we’ve cultivated. For me, it was a sign I needed to continue honing my craft.

Whether you’re Barbara Kingsolver or Donna Tartt, every writer experiences dissatisfaction with their own work. Many use it as an opportunity to quit. The determined few use it as a catalyst for growth.

And thank goodness they do.

I, for one, would rather wait 10+ years for a Donna Tartt book that destroys me in the best way than a meh Donna Tartt effort I quickly forget (as if!).

Leaning into purposeful practice

So, how do we get better at something we desperately want to master?

(Hint: The answer is not to keep writing the same kind of pages over and over.)

We’re all familiar with Einstein's quote about insanity, yet many of us (including myself) continue to practice in the same way while expecting different results.

For writers, this might mean reworking the same 10 pages or continuing to serve as the sole arbiter of their own work. Of the many habits that stymie growth, most stem from a refusal to step outside our comfort zone.

Purposeful practice, also called “deliberate practice,” is a concept expounded by authors Anders Ericsson and Robert Pool in Peak, a sociological look at how we develop expertise. Here, they make the case for intention and specificity in practice.

When I asked ChatGPT what purposeful practice might look like for a literary writer, it came up with the following definition, along with some surprisingly helpful suggestions.

Purposeful practice is about isolating sub-skills, working at the edge of your ability, getting feedback, and repeating until the skill becomes instinctive.

This kind of practice involves:

• Honing observation skills (Taking notes at your local coffee shop, à la Harriet the Spy)

• Scene construction (Writing a scene using only dialogue or drafting an event in different ways: angrily, quietly restrained, dark comedy, etc.)

• Character psychology (Analyzing the psychological structure of a scene — What does each character want? What are they afraid of? What aren’t they saying? — and then replicating it).

• Imitation (Writing in the style of a beloved author. I actually keep a Word doc of sentences I admire, so I can write them down by hand to better understand the mechanics.)

• Intentional feedback (Seeking feedback beyond, “Did you like my story?” Questions like, "Where did you lose interest?” and “Where did you lean in?” are more likely to point a writer in a helpful direction.)

Purposeful practice stretches us beyond our current capacity and into far more vulnerable territory. Think of it as moving up a weight class at the gym.

What’s apt to feel a little brain-breaking is, in fact, neuroplasticity at work. The more we practice anything, the more instinctive it becomes.

Succeeding requires that we do not quit

The last and most important thing to remember about bridging the gap between taste and talent is that perseverance wins in the end.

Success doesn’t require us to write like Donna Tartt or win a 5-book publishing deal. It only requires us to meet our own expectations — however we define them.

And to keep trying.

One day I’ll pull that novel out of the desk drawer and approach it with new eyes. Until then, I’m leaning into purposeful practice, a desire to stretch, and a willingness to write badly in service of becoming great.

I hope we can hold each other accountable to this work.