There is a book by Malcolm Gladwell called Outliers that contends that one must put 10,000 hours of practice into a skill in order to become really proficient at it. I have not read the book myself but am familiar with the theory, and the other day I was thinking that the one thing I have put that many hours into was writing fiction. I started very young and sometimes dedicated entire days to it, whenever I got a chance. However, a few years ago I lost all interest in writing fiction. Why didn’t I put that much time into practicing music? I am still a semiprofessional musician, making tens of dollars by playing in public, so just think what that practice could have done for me. Maybe I could have been less semi and more professional and made as much as hundreds of dollars playing in public. What do I do with all that writing practice? I write this blog, and I write in my prayer journal and my regular diary Mariah, but it’s not fiction. Now I don’t even find writing fiction pleasurable. What happened to me? Why did I put so much time into something I would grow to detest? I don’t even really read fiction anymore, when I used to devour novels. Is this just part of maturing? Or did something really weird happen to me? Did aliens switch my brain with someone else’s? I’m not even a word game puzzle addict anymore, though I will do Sudoku or a crossword puzzle when I come across them. It’s so odd, in other ways I have not changed at all, but I’ve lost some of my addictions to such an extent that I don’t even pursue these activities in moderation. Anyone have any thoughts about this? Will I learn to love fiction again someday? Feel free to leave comments, and I will read them even if they are fictional.