Chapter Content
Okay, so let's talk about the upside of, like, not being super organized, you know, not having it all figured out from the get-go. It's kinda counterintuitive, right? We're always told to plan, to strategize, to be efficient. But, uh, what if I told you that sometimes being a little... inefficient, maybe even a lot inefficient... is actually a good thing?
A lot of people who bloom later in life, they don't really have these meticulously crafted plans for world domination. Many times, they're just kind of, well, bumbling around. They're trying things, failing, tweaking things, trying again, until *bam*, something clicks. It's messy, it's time-consuming. I mean, imagine figuring out what you actually *want* to do with your life when you're in your mid-thirties, or starting a successful business in your forties, or completely switching careers in your fifties. Seems like, oh man, what a waste of time, right? All those lost opportunities.
But, here's the thing. That circuitous, unpredictable, maybe even inefficient route? It often gives you experiences and a deep understanding that you simply wouldn't have gained otherwise. You know?
There's this classic experiment, the spaghetti and marshmallow challenge. You might've heard of it. It’s where teams try to build the tallest tower using spaghetti, tape, string, and a marshmallow that has to go on top. What's interesting is that business school grads and like, corporate executives, they often totally bomb. Like, seriously. Kindergarteners, on the other hand? They rock it. The reason? Well, the adults get bogged down in planning. They get all caught up in team structures, who's the leader, debating ideas, trying to find the "perfect" solution. They're trying to be so efficient, you know? The kids? They just... build. They build prototypes, they learn from each one, they just keep iterating until they have a tower that stands. Engineers and architects, unsurprisingly, they usually do pretty well too. And CEOs... apparently, only when they have their assistant there, but that's a whole other thing.
So, yeah, late bloomers, they often think and work more like those kindergartners and engineers. They keep iterating, they keep trying, until they finally succeed. And that's what this is all about, how meandering a little, or a lot, can actually lead to a really effective career path. This whole inefficient preparation thing? It's kind of like a two-part deal. It's slow development, right? And it's about finding that, well, your calling, you know?
Think about Jerry Seinfeld. The guy behind one of the most successful sitcoms *ever*. He actually praised inefficiency. In an interview he was asked about why he and Larry David wrote Seinfeld without a traditional writers' room. His response was simple: if you're efficient, you're doing it the wrong way. Like, wow, that's pretty blunt, right? The right way, according to him, is the *hard* way. He said the show was successful because he micromanaged everything – every word, every line, every take, every edit, every casting.
"If you're efficient, you're doing it the wrong way." That's like, a motto for late bloomers. There are definite advantages to developing slowly. Look at Django Reinhardt, that legendary jazz guitarist. He was completely self-taught. Couldn’t read music. Learned everything the hard way. That lack of formal training actually gave him incredible inventiveness, you know? It made him unique. Jack Cecchini, who’s mastered both jazz and classical guitar, said the slow and sometimes painful method of self-teaching was actually *better* than being taught. Crazy, right?
Seinfeld and Cecchini both realized that easy learning doesn’t really stick with you. And here’s another example, Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron. Before he was the Red Baron, he was a cavalry officer, and he was a terrible flying student. Like, crashed the first time he even touched the controls. But he became an impressive tactician, an excellent shot. He took down eighty planes during the war. So what might feel like slow progress to a late bloomer – or look inefficient to someone else – is often the best way to learn and develop, you know?
David Galenson, an economist, talks about this in the art world. He contrasts "experimental artists," who peak later in life, with "conceptual artists," who tend to peak super early. Conceptual artists are systematic, they've got a clear vision, detailed plans. Experimental artists? They learn by *doing*. Each piece is a test, a discovery. They're not trying to create some finished masterpiece right away, they're just experimenting, learning from the results, and applying those lessons to their next project. That’s how they gradually develop their vision and the skills to achieve it.
Now, inefficient preparation? That relies on stamina, you have to be able to keep going. And, it's not just grit or conscientiousness, it's about energy. Successful people have energy, that's what venture capitalists look for. There's also a psychologist who talks about grit, focusing on passion and perseverance.
And talking about stamina, David Epstein, he shows how this affects schooling and education. Learning how to pass a test wears off quick, he says, but the long, hard struggle to really understand stuff creates lasting learning. We all know the difference between studying for a test and learning how to do something until it clicks, you know? That second kind of learning makes you more creative, more individual.
Take John Paulson, for instance. He was described in the *New York Times* as a "relatively unknown hedge fund manager" back in 2007. He had a reputation for being solid, maybe even boring, right? But he later became one of the most successful traders ever by just meandering and learning through persistence. He had no direction in college, sold shirts in South America, went to Harvard Business School, switched to finance, left a firm because of politics. He had top grades and promotions, but still ran a small firm. By the time he was forty-one, his firm was considered small-fry. So he settled down, stopped partying, got married, ate healthily. He was frustrated with missing the real estate boom. But the firm grew.
Then he hired Paolo Pellegrini, another late bloomer who had been fired twice, divorced, and had no net worth. Pellegrini dove into the mortgage market, obsessed over the data. People joked that he would never take a shortcut. But he said, "It's more fascinating for me to do everything on my own and reinvent the wheel." And this worked. Pellegrini spotted that the loans and credit swaps would go down. Paulson's firm made billions from that trade.
You see, late bloomers, they don't always have a specific goal, but they have a calling, you know? Like Jerry Seinfeld and Django Reinhardt, it was driven by creative compulsion. Katharine Graham had a passion for news. A calling can be more motivating than a specific goal. Wanting to do something just for the sake of doing it - because you love it - is essential to discovering your goal.
According to psychologists, there are a few ways people come to their callings. There are "latent callings," which are only discovered late in life when your circumstances change. And there are "lost callings," which you discover young and then lose sight of.
Latent callings are discovered when the context of your life changes to make your calling seem more valid. Like Grandma Moses. She started painting in her late seventies. Bill Traylor began drawing at eighty-five. They both had lived difficult lives. Retirement for Moses and old-age homelessness for Traylor were the contexts where they could pursue their gifts.
You also have people like Mother Teresa, who felt her calling after twenty years. Or Madonna Buder, a nun who started competing in Ironman competitions in her eighties. Or Ray Moon, who started bodybuilding in his seventies. Or Mae Laborde, who became a television actress in her nineties. It's awesome. People who immerse themselves in their interests in retirement get a surge of positive feelings.
But, there's the "lost calling," when people abandon it because they can't afford the time and money. They lack the network or mentors. And that can come in a couple different ways. You can accommodate your calling, meaning keeping it as a hobby alongside your work. You refuse to let your interest die. Or there are deferred callings, when spending years without that passion. You might feel frustrated. But once they reach retirement, they return to it with renewed vigour.
And, there's also an emergent calling, whose initial vocation was weaker but becomes stronger. They found it easier to put it aside when they were young. When they're older, they come back to it, whether through a crisis or transformation, or because they need to fill the time they have available once they retire.
It's worth noting that, while having a calling can increase your well-being, people with a strong calling can also experience stress. However, studies have found that having a calling increases your well-being.
So, late bloomers often exhibit early signs of their talents. We don't always know what we want to do with our lives when we're young. Your calling isn’t always undeniable; it can be an ongoing process of evaluating the purpose and meaningfulness of activities within a job and their contribution to the common good. A vocation is the result of the way a person views their work, not the work itself. You don't have to be a charity worker or teacher to have a sense of vocation; all jobs can produce a sense of vocation.
There was this guy, Chris Gardner, who became a stockbroker with no experience, no college degree, nothing. It was a long journey, not just an inspirational moment. He only found his calling after several other jobs. His childhood had been turbulent. His stepfather was violent. He spent time in foster homes. He joined the navy, then became a medical specialist, then worked in a research lab. He was going to be a doctor.
But the medical profession was changing. It would have taken Gardner a decade of training. He was bored by the fact that his practical ability far outstripped his qualifications. At twenty-six, he decided to stop his medical training. He became a father, which inspired him to find his biological father. And a row with his partner prompted him to find a new job that could support the family better than his lab work. He doubled his salary selling medical equipment.
Something about meeting his father helped. He became ambitious. Leaving a sales call one day, he saw a Ferrari circling the parking lot. Gardner asked the driver some questions and discovered that, as a stockbroker, the man earned $80,000 a month. He had found his calling.
Gardner was twenty-seven. No degree, no connections, no experience. And he was Black. He was jailed for non-payment of parking tickets. When he finally found someone to take a chance on him, Gardner quit his job only to find out that the man who had hired him had been fired. He was odd-jobbing. After an altercation, his partner left with their son while he was in jail, and he had to turn up to an interview in jeans and trainers. He got the job. But the small stipend on this training programme meant Gardner had to get a room in a flophouse. After his partner returned their son to him, he eventually navigated homelessness with his son.
Gardner's circumstances were a huge obstacle, but they provided him with the preparation he needed once he had found his calling. He became a successful stockbroker and founded his own firm. He made two hundred calls a day and was the best broker at the firm. In the laboratory, he had to deal with the bigotry of white male medical students from elite universities. But the doctor made it clear: Gardner was in charge. He learned not to take it personally. He reinforced what his mother had taught him: "No one can take away your legitimacy or give you your legitimacy if you don't claim it for yourself."
Chance played a huge role in his life, but he was able to turn those opportunities to his advantage. He changed his surroundings. By changing track several times, Chris Gardner had learned the value of being a learner. He came late to his calling, but a long period of inefficient preparation meant he was perfectly positioned to become a late-blooming stockbroker.
Look at the novelist Penelope Fitzgerald. She wrote some of the great fiction of the twentieth century. Her final novel, written in her seventies, won an award. Somewhat neglected in her lifetime, her reputation has grown since she died in 2000. It was expected to be a prodigy, but she started so late. Why?
The standard answer is her husband. But that overlooks facts about her life. She was a late bloomer. Fitzgerald herself said: "I think you can write at any time of your life." She was held back because of her gender. But most people who write anonymous reviews don't become genius novelists. As well as the vicissitudes of her life, there must be something about Fitzgerald herself that explains her lateness. We risk not taking her seriously if we think that a difficult marriage and a teaching job are enough to turn a potential genius into a mute inglorious Milton. There is a long unwritten history of talent failing to prosper.
After Oxford, Fitzgerald worked for the BBC during the Second World War. After the war, Desmond came home with trauma. Penelope had a miscarriage and a baby who died.
The question is whether she would have started writing fiction if it weren't for these difficulties. She was writing. She also decorated their house fashionably. She was taking pottery lessons in Hampstead and practicing her drawing. She was regarded by acquaintances as knowledgeable, artistic and literary. Desmond should not be blamed entirely.
She once said "nothing is ever all anybody's fault." She said, "The sort of men I like are life's losers. They struggle gallantly, but they really ought to be left in peace." These were partly years of impediment, partly, as her son-in-law says, "The years when, as Cervantes said to explain his own long silence, she was living her life."
Her life, though, was exhausting. She said, "I think we middle-class ladies are really driving ourselves mad by doing all the things that were formerly done by a 'staff' and keeping up our cultural interests as well."
She didn't only want to be a literary writer. As late as the 1970s, there were discussions about Penelope writing a book on flower symbolism in Renaissance art. She arrived at literature; she wasn't entirely diverted from it. As late as 1981, when she had written four novels, she mused. "Perhaps I'm better employed doing this... than in writing novels,"
She went to Florence, a visit that would re-emerge in her novel Innocence. She studied Spanish, German and Chinese; visited Venice, Germany, Elba, Turkey, Madrid, Greece, and other countries. So esoteric was the influence of this cultural immersion that when she based Human Voices on a poem by Heinrich Heine no critic noticed.
She helped her daughter study. Her teaching experience was another part of her development. One of her pupils recalled, "She taught literature like a novelist, always... getting us to look at how it was being done."
Nor was being hassled for time an impediment when she was a novelist. She wrote in the staff room between lessons. She wrote that most women will always be "kitchen-table writers." She missed the staff room. Those are the undercurrents of her fiction, too.
Fitzgerald's novels are also evocations of the Edwardian culture of her childhood. As she said, "All my books are before the 1960s as this was the last time anyone was stopped from doing anything for moral considerations."
"Will-power is useless without a sense of direction" might easily describe Fitzgerald's earlier life.
Studying literature was a slow, lifelong process. "The truth is... that the value of studying literature only really appears as you go on living." Literature is well suited to a late bloomer like Fitzgerald. She had to live the life she lived before she could become the writer she became.
There are other writers like this, unpredictable talents who schooled themselves with a long, perhaps unwitting, preparation for their work. As Penelope Fitzgerald did, Lampedusa traveled Europe. Norman Maclean was a literature professor who became a writer on retirement. Laura Ingalls Wilder started writing the Little House on the Prairie series in her sixties. Mary Wesley started writing novels in her seventies.
For every writer who produced their significant work before forty, there are writers like Cervantes, Dickens and George Eliot, who either started late or produced their greatest work in the second half of their career. Even poets are often older. Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales in his fifties. Averages obscure the great variety of ways that people do their work. There is more than one route to success.
As well as the benefit of inefficient preparation, Penelope Fitzgerald's life demonstrates several lessons. She wrote her best novel in her eighties. She practiced all her life. Her circumstances changed and so did she. This provided her novels with their unique perspective. And she demonstrates the equal probability of success theory.
So, inefficient preparation through a meandering career path can lead to a discovered vocation just as strong as one that you realize when you are young. Finding a vocation often involves learning from failure. This is not just something that happens to musicians and writers.