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.
Famous Hat
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