There was a mentalism piece I loved. I had seen a version of it performed beautifully by someone whose work I admire, and I was convinced I could make it work in my own show. The concept was strong. The effect was clear. The audience experience, when it worked, was stunning.
The problem was that it did not work consistently. Not in the technical sense — the method was reliable. In the performance sense. The patter felt forced in my voice. The setup took too long for the payoff. The audiences I was performing for — corporate groups, conference attendees, keynote audiences — responded to it with polite interest rather than genuine astonishment.
My response was to persist. I rewrote the script. I adjusted the timing. I changed the setup. I modified my delivery. I performed it at least forty or fifty times over eighteen months, each time tweaking something, each time hoping that this version would be the one that finally clicked.
It never clicked.
And looking back, I can see exactly why. I was treating a three-option problem as a one-option problem. The only tool I was using was persistence. And persistence, applied to the wrong problem, is just stubbornness with better branding.
The Three Options
Matthew McConaughey’s memoir introduced me to a framework that I now apply to every creative and professional challenge I face: persistence, pivot, or concede. Every situation where something is not working offers exactly three choices.
Persist means you stay the course. You believe the current approach is fundamentally sound and needs more time, more effort, or minor adjustments to succeed. The strategy is right; the execution just needs refinement.
Pivot means you change the approach while keeping the goal. You still want the outcome, but you acknowledge that the current path is not going to get you there. You need a fundamentally different strategy, not just a tweak.
Concede means you let go. You acknowledge that this particular goal is not achievable for you, at this time, with the resources available. Not because you are a failure, but because the honest assessment says the investment will never produce the return.
What struck me about this framework when I first encountered it was its clarity. Three options. No more, no fewer. And the skill is not in knowing the options exist — that is the easy part. The skill is in honestly assessing which one a given situation calls for.
Why Performers Default to Persistence
Persistence is the easiest option to choose because it requires the least self-honesty. If you persist, you do not have to admit that your approach is wrong (pivot) or that your goal is unachievable (concede). You just have to believe that more effort will solve the problem.
And our culture reinforces this default relentlessly. “Never give up.” “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” “Persistence conquers all.” These are not bad principles — they are essential in many contexts. But they become dangerous when they prevent you from seeing that a situation calls for a different response.
In the magic community specifically, persistence is treated as a virtue so absolute that questioning it feels like heresy. The narrative is always: practice more, perform more, work harder, push through. And for many challenges — building technical proficiency, developing stage presence, overcoming nerves — that narrative is exactly right.
But for some challenges, persistence is the wrong answer. And the inability to distinguish between situations that call for persistence and situations that call for a pivot or a concession is one of the most common traps I see performers fall into. Including myself.
Knowing When to Persist
Persistence is the right choice when the approach is fundamentally sound and the obstacle is time or effort. You persist when the evidence shows incremental progress. You persist when the gap between where you are and where you want to be is narrowing, even if slowly. You persist when the feedback you are getting says “almost” rather than “wrong direction.”
In my practice, persistence has been the right choice more often than not. Learning a new technique that requires months of repetition. Developing a script that needs fifty performances to find its natural rhythm. Building the physical skills for a new effect that my hands are not yet trained to execute.
In all of these cases, the signs of progress are visible if you look honestly. The technique gets smoother week by week. The script lands better each time. The handling becomes more fluid with each performance. The trajectory is upward, even when any individual session feels like a struggle.
The key word is honest. Honest persistence looks at the data — not at how you feel, but at what the results show — and sees a curve that is bending in the right direction. Stubborn persistence ignores the data and relies on hope.
Knowing When to Pivot
A pivot is called for when the goal is right but the approach is wrong. You want the outcome, but the path you are on will not get you there no matter how long you walk it.
With that mentalism piece I spent eighteen months on, the pivot would have meant keeping the effect but changing everything else. Different patter. Different framing. Different position in the show. A completely different presentation that used the same underlying effect but delivered it in a way that suited my voice, my audience, and my performing context.
I eventually did pivot — though I wish I had done it twelve months earlier. I kept the core concept but rebuilt the presentation from scratch. Instead of mimicking the version I had seen, I started from the audience’s perspective. What do my audiences care about? What language do they use? What framing would make this effect resonate with a room full of corporate professionals rather than a room full of magic enthusiasts?
The rebuilt version worked within three performances. Not because I had suddenly become a better performer. Because the presentation was now aligned with who I actually am and who my audience actually is.
The signs that a pivot is needed are these: the effort is high, the results are flat, and the feedback consistently points to the same problem. When you keep hearing the same criticism — the setup is too long, the tone is off, the effect does not connect — and your adjustments are not addressing the root issue, the problem is not effort. The problem is approach.
Knowing When to Concede
Concession is the hardest choice. It feels like failure. It feels like giving up. It feels like admitting that you are not good enough.
But honest concession is not failure. It is strategic resource allocation. Every hour you spend on something that will never work is an hour you are not spending on something that could.
I have conceded on several things in my performing journey. I conceded on a particular style of card manipulation that requires a hand size and finger length I simply do not have. I could have persisted for years, building elaborate workarounds, and I still would not have achieved the visual fluidity that the style demands. The honest assessment was that my physical anatomy made this particular approach a poor investment.
I conceded on a comedy routine that required a character voice I could not sustain without it sounding forced. I worked on it for months, got feedback from people I trust, and the consensus was clear: the character was not authentic to my personality. I could perform it. I could not inhabit it. And the difference was visible.
In both cases, conceding felt terrible in the moment. But it freed up time and energy for work that was better suited to who I am. The card manipulation practice time went into mentalism work where my strengths lie. The comedy routine was replaced by a piece that played to my natural voice. In both cases, the concession made my overall performance better, not worse.
The signs that concession is appropriate: you have tried multiple approaches (not just one), the fundamental obstacle is not effort but fit, and honest assessment from people you trust confirms that this particular goal is not achievable in a way that would justify the continued investment.
The Strategic Lens
My background in strategy consulting is, for once, directly applicable here. In consulting, we routinely help companies make exactly these three choices. Should you persist with a struggling product line? Should you pivot the strategy? Should you exit the market entirely?
The framework we use is the same: assess the evidence honestly, separate effort from results, and make the decision based on data rather than emotion. Companies that cannot make these distinctions — that persist out of pride, that refuse to pivot because they are emotionally attached to their approach, that cannot concede because it feels like admitting defeat — are the ones that fail.
Performers face the same choices at every level. This routine — persist, pivot, or concede? This effect — persist, pivot, or concede? This audience — persist, pivot, or concede? This career path — persist, pivot, or concede?
The skill is not in always choosing correctly. I do not always choose correctly. The skill is in being willing to ask the question honestly and in having the courage to act on the answer, even when the answer is not the one you want.
The Emotional Cost of Bad Persistence
There is a cost to choosing persistence when a pivot or concession is needed, and it goes beyond wasted time.
Bad persistence erodes confidence. Every failed performance of material that is never going to work chips away at your belief in your ability to perform. You start to think the problem is you — that you are not good enough, not talented enough, not skilled enough. But the problem is not you. The problem is the match between you and the material.
Bad persistence creates resentment. You begin to resent the practice time, the performances, the material itself. The thing you once loved becomes the thing you dread. And that resentment leaks into your performance in ways the audience can feel, even if they cannot name what is wrong.
Bad persistence prevents growth. Every hour spent grinding on something that will never work is an hour not spent on the material that could transform your show. The opportunity cost is invisible but enormous.
I have watched performers — including myself — spend years on material that does not work, believing that more effort would eventually crack the code. In some cases, the code was never going to crack. Not because the performer was inadequate. Because the match was wrong.
A Decision Framework
Here is the framework I now use when something is not working.
First, I define the problem as precisely as I can. Not “this routine isn’t working.” But “the setup takes ninety seconds and audiences are losing attention by second forty-five.” Or “the patter sounds natural in my head but stilted when I say it out loud.” Or “the effect is visually impressive but emotionally empty for this audience.”
Second, I ask: have I tried fundamentally different approaches, or just variations of the same approach? If I have only adjusted within one framework, I have not exhausted the pivot option. I try a genuinely different approach before considering concession.
Third, I set a deadline. Not an open-ended commitment to “keep working on it.” A specific timeframe — three months, ten performances, whatever unit makes sense — after which I will honestly evaluate the results.
Fourth, I get external feedback. Not from people who want to be encouraging. From people who will tell me the truth. If three trusted voices say the same thing, I listen.
And fifth, I choose. Persist, pivot, or concede. And once I choose, I commit to that choice without looking back. The worst outcome is the half-measure — persisting halfheartedly, pivoting without conviction, conceding while secretly hoping to try again.
The Freedom in Concession
I want to end with something counterintuitive. Conceding — letting go of something that is not working — is not just strategically sound. It is emotionally liberating.
Every time I have conceded on a piece of material that was draining my energy and not producing results, the immediate feeling was loss. But the feeling that followed, usually within days, was relief. Relief that I no longer had to carry the weight of something that was not working. Relief that the time and energy I was spending on it was now available for something better. Relief that I could stop pretending that persistence was going to solve a problem that persistence could not solve.
The mentalism piece I spent eighteen months on? When I finally conceded on the original approach and pivoted to a rebuilt version, the relief was extraordinary. Not because I had given up. Because I had finally made a strategic choice instead of an emotional one.
Persistence, pivot, or concede. Three options. The skill is knowing which one the situation actually calls for. And the courage is in choosing honestly, even when the honest choice is the hard one.