Perspective Taking (pt 1.): In Life

"Perspective Taking" is a phrase used to mean, essentially, seeing things from another person's point of view.  It's taking another's perspective in a situation. Imagining how they feel, what they think, and why they do the things they do.

We treat it as a skill in special education. It's something we try to teach to students who tend to have a very difficult time with it. It's something we learn, growing up. It's how we make connections with others and make friends. It's how we know how to act around others. It's essential for meaningful social interaction. 

Some students find it hard to do. It takes imagination. Some students simply can't understand how to think like someone else, or consider how someone else feels. They are too focused on themselves, and don't see the need to care about what others are thinking. They don't see the need to understand why someone did something. 

It can be difficult to see things outside of our own perspective. (I think many adults have trouble with this as well, else why do strangers get so mad at eachother so fast, over little things?)

Understanding our own feelings and why we feel them is difficult enough. How can we expect to know why someone else did this or that? 

The truth is we can't. Not for sure. It's why we ask so many questions. How are you feeling? Why did you do this? We can't know for certain why someone does something unless we ask, but asking isn't always an option. So what do we do? We guess. We guess all the time. We guess this person did this or that, for this reason. We might not be right all the time, but the more we guess, the better we get at it. Perspective taking takes guessing. That's part of what's so hard about it. 

It's also hard because to take someone elses' perspective, you have to care about them in some way. If you don't care, there's no point in understanding them. We should care, though, even if it's just because it's a fellow human being. That's not so easy, all the time. There are many times we'd rather not care or understand, but we should try. 

Perspective taking doesn't just help us understand why someone acted a certain way, it helps us realize other people aren't so different from us. If we put ourselves in their situation, we can see that maybe, just maybe, we would have acted the same way, and if we would have acted the same way in the same situation, how can we judge or be angry with them? 

We're all similar beings. We want and need certain things, all being pushed and pulled by the various different forces acting in our lives. 

I'm not saying we need to forgive and forget everybody for every act they commit. But at least we can forgive the small things. The person slow in traffic, the guy who cuts you off, the girl who bumps into you, etc. It seems to me that whenever someone inconveniences us, even in a small way, we respond with anger, like 'what the fuck is this person doing'. We don't think about them or consider why they may have done it, they're a stranger so we immediately call them douchebags in our minds. We'll give friends and family the benefit of the doubt, but not a stranger. Why is that? 

Why let a little thing infuriate you when the person who did it wasn't trying to ruin your day? 

Can't we understand that Shit Happens and people make mistakes. Accidents happen. Let it go. 

Here's an example. I bought chicken from Whole Foods the other day. It's a ten-minute walk from where I live. We were going to cook it for dinner. Open the package and it smells like rotten eggs. Bad news. Bring it back, manager apologizes, I just ask for another package the same size and he says no problem. I get a new package, bring it home, it also smells bad. At this point, I'm pretty fucking pissed off. I could have gone back and yelled at the dude, blah blah blah, made a whole scene and really ruined his day. I didn't. I brought it back, asked to get the same amount fresh from the butcher and the manager apologized numerous times, said that would be fine, and that was the end of it. 

I might have gotten more if I had made a scene. Maybe I would have gotten a gift card or something. I don't know. I do know I probably would have made some people feel shitty and probably would have felt like shit myself for doing so. I don't like making people feel bad, even if they might deserve it. I can't really yell at someone who apologizes and seems genuine about it. I know how shitty dealing with customers or patrons is. I was a bouncer and people treated me like shit about doing my job and about things I couldn't change or wasn't in charge of. 

I fucking hated it. 

Who was I supposed to yell at, at Whole Foods? The manager for not knowing the chicken went bad before the sell-by date? The butchers who are genuinely friendly and nice every time I go there? It's not like they intentionally gave us bad chicken. I got good chicken, cooked and ate it. The dude apologized. No big deal. No reason to scream at someone. 

You know what I appreciated as a bouncer? The nice people, who were friendly even if they had to wait in line for awhile. They made my night so much better. That's a difference we can all make. Be nice and friendly, especially to people who deal with people day in and day out. It can make somebody's day that much better. 

Alot of girls and guys thought they knew about me and my job as a bouncer but they didn't know shit. You might not know shit about someone else so try to give them the benefit of the doubt, as much as you can. Treat them like you would a friend. Treat them decently. 

Take someone else's perspective. 

I think everyone should work in a job where they have to deal with people. Restaurant, retail, nightclub, customer service, etc. That gives you some fucking perspective. Then maybe people wouldn't treat folks, who are just doing their job, like shit. 

I was going to go into how Perspective-Taking is especially an important skill for writing, but I think I will write a second blog post for that. 

I guess the message is...try to be nice and shit? It's better than being angry all the time. 

"The Wheel of Time" and me

A few weeks ago, I finished a series I'd begun a decade ago. It's quite the experience. I felt mentally exhausted, emotionally wrung out, saddened yet pleased, awed yet sorrowful.

I'd finished "A Memory of Light", the final novel in "The Wheel of Time" series.

I started "The Eye of The World" in high school, knowing that one of my older brothers had read it and enjoyed it. I liked fantasy, losing myself in a wild yet somehow plausible world, another reality. The stories intrigued me, the action was exciting and simply put, the magic was cool.

"The Eye of The World" hooked me immediately. It had everything I could have wanted. Three farmboys are forced to leave their home, chased by evil, and heroically save the day. The action was there, intense and heart-thumping. The characters were fantastic. I felt like I knew them, their thoughts and feelings. They fought, tooth and nail, giving it their all to save the day.

And yet, at the end, the day was saved but not much more. The story went on. There was something much bigger growing. I felt like I had barely scratched the surface, even though the book was 700 pages long or so.

I devoured the next few books, one after another. The boys grew, slowly but surely. The conflicts grew as well, becoming bigger and crazier. The cast grew as well, on both sides, good and evil. Each book brought new cultures, each incredibly detailed, down to what they wore and their hair styles. This wasn't just a fantasy story, this was an entire world, an entire reality to delve into.

I delved into that world, The Wheel of Time, time and time again.

The story grew beyond just three boys, though they stayed as centerpieces. The Wheel of Time wasn't about three boys, it was about the end of the Third Age, about the Last Battle between Light and The Dark One, it wasn't one story it was a multitude, all weaving together brilliantly.

Eventually, I had to stop, not because I wanted to, but because I had caught up to Robert Jordan as he wrote new novels. Sometimes, I would go back and read the first couple, refresh the story in my mind. I fell easily back into the world, the characters as familiar as old friends.

Each time Jordan would finish a new one, I'd consume it in a matter of days. I could tell the end was coming. It had to. He couldn't write the story forever. Things were shaping up for the grand finale and I knew it would be one hell of a ride.

Then, after the 11th book in the series, while working on what he thought would be the final book, Robert Jordan unfortunately passed away.

I felt crushed. This writer, this creator of an amazing world, had died. It's always sad when a writer passes away. You see, when you read a writer for so long, you feel like you know them. Writers put much of themselves into the work. I knew Jordan's world, so I felt like I knew him. I wish I could have known him, or let him know how much his world meant for me.

But he was gone. Another sting, there would be no more Wheel of Time. I would never know what happened to my favorite characters. I could only imagine.

I put the series aside for a long time. I'd thought it was done for good. I made my peace with it and moved on. It was a really great series that unfortunately didn't get an ending. Oh, well, I thought. What I got to read was pretty freaking great.

Then, I heard The Wheel of Time wasn't dead. Jordan had kept numerous notes and his wife had taken them to Brandon Sanderson to finish the series. I can only thank Mrs. Jordan so much. It must have been hard, giving your husbands work to another, trusting them to finish it the right way. But she wanted the readers to get their ending, and she must have known Robert Jordan wouldn't have wanted to leave his readers like that.

I felt ecstatic when I heard, yet also nervous. Could someone else write a Wheel of Time novel? Not to mention the penultimate finale to Jordan's world?

Well, I knew I would find out. I just had to read one more book when Sanderson finished it...

Then I heard he was splitting the final novel into three, as it was simply too much material to fit into one book. I had not one more novel to finish the series, but three, one published a year for three years. 14 books in total. Would I ever actually read the end? I sometimes wondered.

When I read the 12th, Sanderson's first, my worries were dashed away. Sanderson performed some sort of miracle, creating a novel that felt like The Wheel of Time, through and through, keeping the characters consistent and hurrying the plot along at an exciting pace.

I read the 13th book in three days. It blew my mind. I couldn't believe the end was coming. I just had to wait an agonizingly long time.

Finally, A Memory Of Light was published in January, 2013.

Unfortunately, I couldn't read it then.

See, I felt I had a duty, a responsibility. If I was really going to read the end to The Wheel of Time, well, I needed to fucking reread the entire series before I did so.

So I did.

I started last summer, possibly a year ago, and read through all 13 books without a break in between. I engulfed myself in the world, reliving the climactic moments, the badass action, the drama. Dropping back into that world felt great, the cast of characters like old friends come for dinner.

Now, I've read the end. I know how The Last Battle finishes. I know what happens to the characters. It was, honestly, better than I could have imagined. Everything came back around. Everything tied up. Nothing was forgotten (as far as I could tell).

I have never felt so connected with any other novel or series. It is a fantastic world to dive into, and I would recommend it to anyone willing to invest the time into it. I tell you, the payoff is worth it.

I don't usually use this word, as these days it is completely overused and has nearly lost all meaning, but it truly fits.

The Wheel of Time is epic.

Finally, a blog post

I know it's been awhile. I do many things to convince myself not to write a blog post. I tell myself nobody will read it, so what's the point? Or I convince myself I have nothing to write about. If I don't have a specific topic or subject for a post, what's the point in writing one? What will it even be about?

I figured enough time has passed. I'm just going to write and see what comes out of it.

The summer has been a hot one. I work in a special education program, with kids who are between the ages of 16-19, but have very limited function. It's very different than my work during the year, where I work with students  in grades 4-6 who function near to grade level but need social and behavioral support. At times, my job in the summer feels more like babysitting than teaching. Sometimes, I'm asked why I do it? Why work with these kids? Why do this job? And, most importantly, is this what I want to do as a full-time job, is this the career I want to go into?

I have been wrestling with these questions for awhile now. Do I stick with the english-teaching or go into special education? Special education seems like it would provide more opportunities. Either way, I must go to grad-school, spending time and money I don't have for possible future employment. So again, I return to the question: Is special education the career I want to go into?

The answer is yes. As infuriating as it can be at times, I enjoy my job. I enjoy the students. Every one is unique and fantastic in their own way. Every day is different, every day presents new challenges in helping students understand skills and knowledge they need to live a successful life. Yes, students can be aggravating, but they can also be great. The moment when a student finally understands an idea is an incredible moment. And you helped them do it. It's a great feeling.

I want to do this. I want to go to work everyday thinking about how I'm going to teach these students what they need to know, I want to be worrying about the best way to handle students' various situations. I know there will be paperwork. I know some days will drag on and other days it will feel like I'm banging my head against a brick wall but tell me a job where it never feels like that. Setbacks, disappointments, and irritation happens in every job, every day. I don't care. This is what I want.

So I need to go back to school. Take classes again, take out more loans and spend free time learning. That's okay. Improving oneself, improving one's education is a good thing. I've always enjoyed learning new things. I'm somewhat excited to go back to school, despite the time/money commitment. At least I will be back on track, instead of feeling stuck where I am.

Man, it feels good to say that. I hadn't really committed to it, until now. Writing can do that. You can start off writing about something and realize you want to say something else, realize you've already made a decision to a question you had in your mind.

If you are stuck with a choice, and you don't know what to do, try writing about it. Write out your thoughts, your hopes, your worries. It might help. Writing organizes your mind, it focuses you.



Finally, a blog post written. I will try to write them more often, even when I think I have nothing to say.  Remember, write first, ask questions later.

A Writer Writes

A writer writes. Pretty simple, right? If you write, you are a writer, if you don't, you're not.

I'm bad at writing. I don't mean my writing is terrible to read,(sometimes it is), or that I'm awful at the craft of writing (such as grammar, structure, voice, style, etc.). I mean that I am bad at actually writing things. I'm terrible at putting pen to paper or words on the screen.

Free time is my enemy. I long for it and then have no idea what to do when I have it. I think about everything I could do, all the possibilities and they overwhelm me to the point where I sit on the couch, just thinking. I psyche myself out. I ask myself: Which project do I work on? What should I do? Edit a novel that may never be good enough? Start a new story or continue one that I'll never get around to finishing? A blog post that will be read by few?

I plan on writing. All through the week, I tell myself, this time, this weekend, I'm going to write for four hours, or 10,000 words, edit this many pages, do this and that, not to mention the other thing. What happens to these plans come Saturday morning? They fade away like fog on a summer day. I stare at my screen, lacking motivation to make a decision and click on something. Weak, pathetic. It's silly and stupid, childish even.

My plans may have been overblown. I overestimated my willpower, my drive. I need to set a limit, time or words to write, a goal for Saturday and Sunday. An easy goal that I can succeed at time and time again, giving me confidence until it's routine. Then I can increase the goal.

One hour of writing on the weekend. Sixty minutes, nonstop, either editing or writing. I will set a timer and until that timer goes off, I can do nothing but edit or write. No internet surfing, no video-game playing or tv watching. Nothing but writing. A writer writes. Lately, I haven't been much of a writer, but I want to change that.

A writer writes. To be honest, at least for myself, I would like to change that saying. A writer writes regularly. If you jot down one story three years ago and haven't written since, you're not a writer, in my mind. But if you jot down even just one sentence a week? You're a writer. I want to be a writer.

60 minutes over the weekend. Easy, right? Pathetic, really. I know it's not much but it's a start, and starting is the hardest part of any project. I need to write first and put my thoughts on hold, my fears of never being published, being good enough, feelings that what I'm doing is ultimately pointless...Those are lies told by fear, excuses not to do something I enjoy. It's silly to excuse myself from doing something I enjoy. I need to get over it.

It's like running or going to the gym. I always feel good afterwards. It's getting the motivation to do it in the first place, to get your butt of the couch and act. That's the hard part.

I've made excuses long enough. Time to start writing.

It Walked Inside the Spaceship

(A flash fiction writing challenge taken from TerribleMinds Flash Fiction Friday Challenge )



It walked inside the spaceship and then it sat down. Without so much as a "Hello," or a "how do you do?" Whatever it was, Hans thought to himself, it was rude. Especially considering they were traveling at lightspeed. Incredibly rude. And impossible. Who or what did this thing think it was, coming onto his ship without a word in the middle of traveling through space?

"Hey," Hans said, standing up from the command chair, gesturing with his high-tech laser gun. He really liked that gun, all silver and shiny. Impressive, it was definitely the kind of gun a ship captain would have. He pointed the gun at It. "Who are you?" Hans asked. "Err, what are you?"

It did not reply. It stared at him. Or he thought It did. It didn't have a face, or any discernible features. It was white, and man-shaped. 

Hans glanced at his crew. They sat at their posts, all facing It, confused and worried expressions on their faces. Hans thought he should probably be worried too. Something had entered the spaceship while it traveled at a speed faster than could really be comprehended. That sounded bad. Impossible even. Things that could do the impossible should be feared, he thought.

But he was too damn mad. If It was so powerful and amazing, the least It could have done was ask before It strolled in, or at least, let them know It was coming. And after strolling onto his ship without a care? It had sat down. Like an unwelcome relative to dinner. 

"Hey," Hans said, louder. "Asshole, what the fuck are you doing on my spaceship?" He made sure the deadly end of the gun pointed at It. That would scare it. Definitely.

It turned It's head ever-so-slightly. 

The gun melted in Hans' hands. He threw it down with a yelp. 

"Now that's just plain rude!" He shouted, pointing an accusing finger, jabbing it in It's direction. "You come onto my ship, sit down and melt my gun? What is this universe coming to? Why, in my day, if an alien came onto your ship, they were goddamned polite about it! Haven't you any common decency?" 

"Captain..." Talwart said, wiping nervous sweat from his brow. He was always sweating, a common problem among Bigfeet. Everyone had always thought Big Foot a myth and then after space travel, they found out he was just an alien stuck on earth. "Captain, maybe you should be a little...nicer to It?" 

"Nicer?" Hans growled, glaring. "It has the audacity to-"

ENOUGH. 

The voice exploded in Hans' head, eliminating every thought. Silence came after. A look at his crewmates told him they had heard as well. Their mouths had dropped and they stared at It. 

Hans grumbled. "Now It interrupts me in the middle of speaking...Aliens ain't got no manners..." he muttered to himself. 

I AM NOT AN ALIEN. I AM A GOD.

"...Could've told me that before you melted my goddamn gun..." Hans kept on, under his breath, looking down at the melted pool on the floor. 

THE GUN, NOT IMPORTANT. YOUR FEELINGS, NOT IMPORTANT.

"Maybe not important to you..." 

SHUT UP. JUST SHUT YOUR MOUTH.

Hans opened his mouth to say that that was no way to speak to a captain on his own ship, when he found no noise would come out. 

LISTEN. 

It stood, raising what could be called hands. 

LISTEN TO THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. 

Whiteness enfolded them. They saw nothing but white. 

LISTEN AND KNOW, YOU ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO CAN STOP IT.

The white faded, leaving everyone gasping for breath, eyes wide. Hans staggered to his feet. 

"You could have warned us before...all that...Would have been the polite thing to do..." He stammered, leaning against the wall. 

It shook It's head. 

I DO NOT LIKE YOUR ODDS. BUT I DID NOT CHOOSE...ENOUGH. LISTEN, IF YOU WISH TO SAVE EVERYTHING. IGNORE, AND EVERYTHING ENDS. 

It waited, looking at them all. 

Hans stood straight, puffing out his chest. "Well, get on with it then. We're waiting."

It sighed. 

Introduction and Update

This blog is a journal, a podium, a place for thoughts and rants, ravings on part-time writing for no money, posts on fiction and life, shitty jobs and meandering my way through my early twenties, figuring out just what I'm going to do with a bachelor's of english, how to get a teaching job, which graduate program to apply to so I can more easily acquire a teaching job...etc.

Over the years, it's become a catch-all for whatever I happen to be thinking about, sometimes with regular scheduled posts once a week, and other times whenever I happen to feel like it. I finally changed the title recently, and found out there was almost a 100 viewers the other day. That was surprising. I figured I might as well write an update on my life and my writing and what this blog's all about then. 

I'm on my third or fourth edit of Blood and Ashes, a novel I wrote two or three years ago now. This time, I'm completely adding a new character into it that I feel should be there, and cutting out some weird relationship that feels forced. There are times when I wonder if this novel will ever be 'complete'. Will I just keep coming with new ideas to make it better? I know it will never be perfect, the question is will I ever stop trying to make it perfect. I think after this pass through, I will send it to a few beta readers and barring any enormous errors, the only things left to fix will be little things. As much as it has changed since the first draft, I think it's all for the good. 

The question after it's done is how to publish it. Self vs traditional. I'm leaning towards Self-publishing because generally it's easier, I can market it on my own in my free time, and since I'm not expecting my writing to support me, it doesn't really matter how much money I make. Anything I make will just be extra, on the top after my normal job. Traditional, I'd have to send it to traditional publishers and wait for months on end to hear back, and maybe get an agent and who knows what all. Anyways, this question can come later, once the book is finished. (if ever.) 

I'm getting an itch to work on new things though, or rewriting old ideas. I really like the idea of starting a serial story and adding a chapter a week, or every other week. It'd give me something concrete to work on every week, new and fresh. Right now, a supernatural mystery has been brewing in my head, a mixture of an old half-done novel and other half-baked ideas. It sounds fantastic in my brain. Now to just get it down on paper. That's the problem with most creative ideas, isn't it? Getting the work started, getting it done. Putting thoughts down on paper. But that's what this blogs all about. Write first and figure it all out later. Get going and figure out the specifics on the way. 

So that's what this is, I guess, to any and all newcomers. A place to write and talk about writing, among whatever other random subjects and things that come up. Feel free to come back or not. I'll be here, writing whatever I feel like. 

Tragedy

I don't know how to write about tragedy. I feel conflicted. I want to write but words seem...inconsequential. Unimportant. What happened seems beyond words, beyond explanation and understanding. But what am I going to do? Say 'it's beyond me so screw it, let someone else talk about it'. I could. Others have and will, and will probably sound smarter or have more meaning in their words than mine, but who cares? I decided I want to write about this, so I am. Instead of asking myself "Who am I, to write about such a tragedy?" Or "What can I even say about this horrible event?", I'm just going to write, and ask questions later.

I was going to go to the marathon. I'm on break from working at the school and had nothing better to do while my girlfriend was at work. I figured I'd go, watch a bunch of runners, then meet up with work friends after the red sox game for a beer or two. Ended up taking the wrong train and getting out at the Prudential Center Stop. I was frustrated by that point and tons of people were walking everywhere. It was probably close to 2:00 and I knew the red sox game would be over soon. I also saw tons of runners already done and so wondered if I had missed the majority of it. I figured I'd head over to fenway and meet up with friends.

See, things could have gone very differently. That's something I kept thinking about yesterday. If I'd gotten on the right train, gotten off at the right stop, and realized the majority of the runners would still be running, I very well might have gone to Copley Square to watch the finish line. If I had, and walked by the wrong place at the wrong time...

It's crazy. It happened not a couple miles away. I sat in a bar near fenway while rumors started, everybody was on their phones and finally breaking news scrawling across the bottom of the tv's said there were two explosions at the marathon. That's what I kept thinking yesterday, that a few different choices and I might have been there.

It's selfish. There were people who were there, dead and hurt, with families. People who actually witnessed the explosions and the trauma. I was at a bar drinking a beer. I should not be thinking of me, I should be thinking of those people.

But that's part of what we do when something like this happens. We imagine ourselves in the situation, that could have been us or family or friends. That's how we feel empathy for the victims. We can imagine them as our friends and family and ourselves, and feel at least a part of their pain and sorrow. I'm sorry for any and all involved. The first responders and those who helped in such a crazy fucked-up situation are amazing and should be praised. Those who run towards a disaster, when everyone else is running away, are incredible.

The truth is the vast majority of us are decent people, but with people's access to information and the technology we have now, a very few can hurt very many. It's important to remember we as a species are becoming less and less violent, but the weapons used are becoming more and more potent, more destructive, as well as easy to create on your own. Add that to the all-encompassing media we have now, showing and reshowing brutal clips and pictures, speculating and talking about nothing....It can seem like the world is ending after every terrible catastrophe. But it's not. It's good to remember this in bad times.

Think of the ones who are hurt and hurting, and the ones who helped and are helping. Be nice to people, everyone and everywhere. It's crazy, but we'll deal with it.