Uneasily embarking on my eighth decade, I profess exceptionalism in no critical enterprise, am average (and below) in most areas, but have a few skills of which I am proud. Reviewing high points reminds me that grand successes never come without significant effort. The hard work mantra was drilled into me as a youth, and I comply when a reward is coveted. That hasn’t stopped me from being a real slacker in other areas, especially when the stakes are on either end of the continuum: trivial or unattainable.

Florida State University psychologist Anders Ericsson proposed the 10,000-hour rule, which Malcolm Gladwell popularized in his 2008 bestselling book, Outliers. Exceptional expertise in any field requires at least 10,000 hours of practice. Gladwell applied this to the Beatles’ marathon playing in Hamburg before they were famous and to Bill Gates’ immersion in early computers from his childhood. Gladwell claimed that almost anyone can become an expert if she is willing to put in the time.

When I first read Outliers, I was suspicious of Gladwell’s hourly prescription. The Beatles were a great band because they were innovative, not because they were so attuned to each other’s styles. Ringo did not join the band until well after their Hamburg residency. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison all composed and sang—a rarity in the early 1960s—and we remember them more for this creativity than for their instrumental virtuosity.  There’s probably a garage band of 40-somethings who have played together 10,000 hours but find an audience for their tight cover versions at the pizza parlor on Saturday night.

The careful scientist in Ericsson tempers Gladwell’s optimistic promises. He adds the caveats that 10,000 is but a general number, and not all practice is equal. Success depends not so much on repetition, but rather, on deliberate practice: adjusting your execution in light of feedback from experts and coaches, focusing on technique, and intentionally pushing yourself out of your comfort zone. Ericsson also found that mentally practicing the skills helped etch them into the brain. Experts can quickly and reliably see what’s working and what isn’t, and make the necessary adjustments.

I devoted 10,000 hours to few activities in my lifetime. Of course, lying around and wasting time watching television come to mind, and I was once right up there with Olympians in this sport. But I’ve dropped off my viewing over the last two decades, so I’m no longer in contention for the gold.

Academics occupied me for 20 years with plenty of advice, corrective feedback, and mental practice, and it yielded a few satisfying sheepskins. My psychological practice netted many multiples of 10,000 hours and paid off handsomely in professional competence. When considering the countless hours devoted to our vocations, I’m sure most can relate. 

I’ve listened to and read about popular music for over 10,000 hours, but I’m unwilling to declare myself an expert. I can “Name that Tune” with the best of them, quote lyrics, identify seminal composers, and relate artists’ biographical information. However, I can’t play an instrument nor can I differentiate a Gibson from a Fender guitar lick. I’ll call music a hobby or passion, but not an expertise.

Pairing my love of popular music with dance seems a natural progression, but I got a late start. At 50, I began taking ballroom dancing lessons with my wife; within a year, I extended this to couples’ pattern dancing, and finally, line dancing. Over the next 20 years, I devoted a few thousand hours (but not 10,000) to deliberate practice, including instruction with feedback. I found mental practice to be a very useful tool for learning routines, and I can pick up most patterns easily now on the dance floor.

So, am I an expert?  Hardly. I am a horrible student, impatient, and generally a pain in any teacher’s posterior. So, I’ve plateaued at line dance’s intermediate level. Advanced echelons far exceed my abilities, and gracefulness is not a descriptor uttered in the same sentence as my name. I am reasonably proficient within my circle of intermediate dancers, but I aspire to no greater heights. I’ve achieved far more than I ever imagined.

And then there is writing. I started scribbling in preschool and have put words together for well over the 10,000 requisite hours, but the practice has been disjointed. Through 20 years of formal schooling, I wrote well enough to satisfy my instructors. Composing a 400-page dissertation secured a Ph.D. and advanced my technical writing skills for relative ease in authoring professional journal articles. Penning popular articles and books came next, requiring attention to clarity for general audiences. Over the last 20 years, I’ve been writing for myself: memorializing trips through travelogues, musing about life’s vicissitudes, composing a memoir, and penning essays for this newspaper.

When I apply Ericsson’s definition of deliberate practice to my writing, I discover a mixed bag. The academy taught me all the rudimentary skills: grammar, syntax, usage patterns, and basic composition. My efforts were duly critiqued and graded, advancing my skills. Journal editors prize clear communication of relevant information over panache—that’s why academic journals are as dry as the Mojave Desert—so excessive passive voice or word repetition was never rebuked as long as the content was accurate.

My popular writing failed to profit from significant corrective feedback. I was surprised when my book editors barely changed a word of my raw manuscripts, and magazine editors followed suit. I knew that I was good enough, but the masses don’t empty their pocketbooks for merely good enough.

For the last 20 years, I’ve engaged in abundant deliberate practice. I read every kind of literature to learn how the masters, as well as the merely accomplished, present their narratives. I read books about writing as well to learn technical skills, and I am a ruthless editor of my own compositions. I haven’t sought out a professional editor to work with me, and, as a consequence, I’m probably repeating the same mistakes.  Log in and point them out—I’m eager to learn.

What about you?  What are those delightful topics on which you’ve become an expert—identifying every bird that can evade your cat’s clutches, becoming a World War II historian, or calculating the exact number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin? How about those long-honed skills of tending a garden or cooking like a Michelin chef? How high are you soaring after so many decades? Was it worth it? If you’ve logged those hours, you know it was!