Discussions of performance in most disciplines often focus on the roles that genetics, environment, and practice play in determining success. While different thinkers usually give precedent to one of these areas, all three seem to contribute to the successful cultivation of a talent or skill. While not fully understood, it seems that certain genetic predispositions interact with and respond to environmental stimuli and practice. As suggested in an earlier post, practice alone won't make a champion, but it is required, according to Dr. Ross Tucker, for the "realization of genetic potential." Accordingly, genes and environment are insufficient; you also need to practice.
Given the role that practice is believed to play in "realiz[ing] genetic potential," it would also seem important to understand precisely how best to practice. That is the theme of a recent piece on Time.com, entitled "The Myth of 'Practice Makes Perfect.'" In it, the writer Annie Murphy Paul discusses the notion that, "It's not how much you practice but whether you're quick to fix your errors that leads to mastery."
According to Ms. Paul, the type of practice that leads to mastery is "deliberate," and involves "relentlessly focusing on our weaknesses and inventing ways to root them out." Accordingly, mastery is not necessarily just the result of how much time one spends doing something, but also the way in which one approaches it. As the psychologist Anders Ericsson is quoted as saying, "Deliberate practice requires effort...and is not inherently enjoyable."
I wondered a bit about that last part. What makes deliberate practice "not inherently enjoyable?" Is it because it constantly reminds a person of their weaknesses in a skill? Or is it because deliberate practice requires constant work in areas where competency is lowest?
My experience in school suggests something to this second explanation. I rarely minded doing work for a class in which I felt confident in my understanding of the material. It wasn't hard, required little struggle, and when finished, it gave me a sense of accomplishment (however small). The same could not be said for subjects in which I struggled. Simple work became tedious, and there was always the lurking possibility I would come to a question for which I could not remember, reason out, or derive an answer. If I'd been a deliberate practicer at the time, such instances would have been a red flag, indicating where more practice was required. But since I wasn't, they were simply a source of frustration.
So on one level, deliberate practice seems to require a kind of reappraisal of errors; they're not inherently bad, so much as indicators of where time and energy might be intelligently applied. If you find only a handful of areas preventing you from understanding something or performing a task, working on them is probably a more efficient use of time than working on things you already know or can do well.
Yet the reality for many of us is that this piece of rational advice is not enough, and perhaps that is a consequence of the first point I posed above; that deliberate practice constantly reminds people of their weakness in a skill.
Why should incompetency bother people? It's not considered a virtue, I'll grant you that, but I should think we're all incompetent in almost everything at some point, yet eventually we gain some competency in some things. What prevents us from gaining competency (at least) in all things we decide to do?
One idea involves haste. When one feels incompetent, there's a great discrepancy between how we perceive our ability and how we perceive the abilities of the competent. The greater the incongruity, the more daunting the task (from some perspectives anyway) can seem. One thing I've noticed when these situations arise is a tendency to want to progress quickly, so as to alleviate this discrepancy as quickly as possible. In such haste, I think we often put undo pressure on ourselves to improve quickly, and in extreme cases, according to a pre-determined schedule. Under duress to meet deadlines, errors become set-backs rather than indicators, and a failure in comprehension or execution becomes a failure of personal (or even moral) implications.
Whatever are we to do?
One idea is to slow down. When you're not in a rush, you can move at whatever pace circumstance allows without feeling distressed. When you come across an area where you struggle, you can work on it as long as you need before moving on. Since there's no rush to get to the end, you can take your time and get things right.
Interestingly, this closely mimics the practice of highly-skilled piano players in a study cited in Ms. Paul's article above. In her own words:
"The best pianists, they determined, addressed their mistakes immediately. They identified the precise location and source of each error, then rehearsed that part again and again until it was corrected. Only then would the best students proceed to the rest of the piece. 'It was not that the top-ranked pianists made fewer errors at the beginning of their practice sessions than did other pianists,' Duke notes. 'But, when errors occurred, the top-ranked pianists seemed much better able to correct them in ways that precluded their recurrence.'"
It seems then, that the best pianists in the study identified the spots where they struggled most, and spent as much time working on them as it required. Their practice was measured, deliberate even, moving at whatever pace was required to master the most difficult sections. They made as many errors at the start as everyone else, but by slowing down they managed to make the fewest by the end.
Practice can help you learn something new, or perform a skill you enjoy. But as we've found, effective practice appears to require more than will-power alone. It seems to require both an understanding of errors as helpful indicators of where effort might be applied, an acceptance of whatever pace the task allows. When you're not in a hurry, you can be deliberate as you like, which might just make all the difference. Something to consider, perhaps.
Happy Friday, friends :)
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