"When she was about seven years, my son Owen fell in love with the E Street Band, Bruce Springsteen, Clarence Clemmons, in particular, the portly saxophonist . Owen decided he would learn to play like Clarence. My wife and I enjoyed it and we were pleased. [...]
For Christmas we gave Owen a tenor sax and a course of lessons with Gordon Bowie, one of the musicians in our area. [...]
Seven months later I proposed to my wife to stop the saxophone lessons, if Owen had been agreed. He it was, and with palpable relief. He had not had the courage to confess, since he was just asking the sax, but seven months because he had enough to realize that although he loved the sound of mighty Clarence Clemmons, the sax was not a matter for him: God had not won that particular talent.
I knew it, not because Owen came to an end, but because he did only at times that he had given Mr. Bowie for half an hour after school four days a week, plus an hour on weekends.
Owen had learned the notes and scales, did not lack memory, lungs and good hand-eye coordination, but we had never heard off on a tangent, surprised himself with something new, revel in their music. It just finished the exercises, the instrument he returned his astuccioe remained there until the next lesson or the next exercise. What I deduced was that between the sax and my son would never established relationship game, would be to always try and try again. Not good. If you do not there is joy, not good . It is better to devote to them, where inventories are superior talent and is the highest degree of fun.
Talent subvert the very idea of \u200b\u200bexercise, and when you find something for which you have real talent, you do it (whatever that is) until his fingers bleed or your eyes fall from the head. Although no one is listening (or reading or watching), each session is an exhibition of skill, because the designer is happy. "
Stephen King, On Writing , Sperling & Kupfer, 2001, pp. 145-146
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