Give it 85% (Or, The Value of Non-Attachment)

A common writerly axiom is that novels aren’t finished, they’re abandoned. The way this is phrased puts a negative spin on it, as if the bedraggled author gives up after years of toil, bitterly resigned to the impossibility of realizing an artistic vision. I don’t think this is the best way to frame it, though. Where others see abandonment, I see healthy non-attachment. Or, to put it another way, the 85% rule.

I recently listened to a podcast interview with Hugh Jackman. In addition to being an interesting dude who talks about his passion for books and jigsaw puzzles, Jackman is also remarkably productive. The interviewer is trying to nail down the secret to his success, and Jackman’s response is intriguingly counterintuitive: he succeeds by giving 85% effort. In defending this laid-back strategy, he references a sports physiologist who studied legendary sprinter Carl Lewis. Lewis would often start his races near the back of the pack, but made up that distance in the second half. Here is Jackman’s summary of how he accomplished this:

“What (the sports scientist) realized Carl Lewis did at the 50-meter mark, 60-meter mark, was that he did nothing. His breathing was exactly the same. His form is exactly the same as (it) had been between meters 25 and 50. Whereas everyone else starts to push to the end – “Gonna try a little extra harder!”—and he said their face would scrunch up, their jaw would tighten, their fists would start to clench… Carl Lewis stayed exactly the same and then [whooshing sound] he would just breeze past them.”

That’s because Carl Lewis was loose. The 100 meters is the quintessential “give it all you’ve got” event.  You’re just running in a straight line for 10 seconds. And yet, one of the greatest of all time dominated because he didn’t give 100%.  

One of life’s most poignant ironies is that attachment to an outcome makes that outcome less likely.

If you’re overly attached to winning a 100-meter sprint, if you strain and grit your teeth as you approach the tape, you get passed by the guy who’s loose.

If you walk into a party and are overly attached to the idea of making friends, you project a neediness that repels people.

And if you’re a writer who is overly attached to your finished product being perfect, that excessive attention is going to smother it.

There’s something to be said for the looseness of first drafts. When you dash one off, not fussing over every detail, just following your characters where they lead, the story brims with spontaneity, the work of an author who’s as surprised as anyone else with the way things end up.

Revision is important, obviously. Flabby passages need trimming, contradictions need straightening out, passive voice constructions (such as this sentence) need attention. But revise too much, and you begin to choke the life out of it. The story transforms from robust to overly precious. And the writer makes a similar transformation, from confident storyteller to risk-averse artiste. Furthermore, the characters stop having a mind of their own; by that point, you are imposing your will on them, a will that becomes narrower and more dogmatic with each revision.

When I’ve got a story at the 85% mark, I know it’s time to let go. Push baby bird out of the nest. The extra effort represented by that last 15% just isn’t worth it. It’s not good for me emotionally, and it’s also not good for the story.

100% effort leads to race-losing, soul-killing attachment.

85% effort is non-attachment, and non-attachment is life.