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confusion the waitress
Dec. 30th, 2002 10:43 amConfusion and misunderstanding. They bother me more than most people.
As a writer, one of my greatest goals is to be understood. When I write I try to help the reader see the universe as I see it, experience emotions and events as I have.
When I was younger, I was another disaffected, alienated geek boy with no social life. I did my best to hide it (even from myself), but in truth I was horribly, horribly lonely. I was surrounded by bright people, both children and adults, but my interests, my ideas, my passions, made no sense to them. There was no commonality. There was no understanding. It was like I was this funny-looking little space alien with no social skills and a tendency to rant.
But when I wrote, I could explain. I could show people my dreams, right there, painting word-pictures. Instead of seeing an ozone-piercing death missile that represented billions of dollars that could have been better spent saving the spotted owl, people would see a spacecraft as I saw it: an embodiment of hope, of the search for knowledge and enlightenment, the living expression of dreams come true.
I eventually met people who understood my passions and my vision. They don't always agree, but they at least understand. And I eventually learned how to be social, and that part of me which had been starved for social contact for so long opened up and blossomed.
But I kept this: It hurts me to be misunderstood. It saddens and scares me. Not much, just a little -- but being misunderstood, giving the wrong impression, is something I work hard to avoid.
As a writer, one of my greatest goals is to be understood. When I write I try to help the reader see the universe as I see it, experience emotions and events as I have.
When I was younger, I was another disaffected, alienated geek boy with no social life. I did my best to hide it (even from myself), but in truth I was horribly, horribly lonely. I was surrounded by bright people, both children and adults, but my interests, my ideas, my passions, made no sense to them. There was no commonality. There was no understanding. It was like I was this funny-looking little space alien with no social skills and a tendency to rant.
But when I wrote, I could explain. I could show people my dreams, right there, painting word-pictures. Instead of seeing an ozone-piercing death missile that represented billions of dollars that could have been better spent saving the spotted owl, people would see a spacecraft as I saw it: an embodiment of hope, of the search for knowledge and enlightenment, the living expression of dreams come true.
I eventually met people who understood my passions and my vision. They don't always agree, but they at least understand. And I eventually learned how to be social, and that part of me which had been starved for social contact for so long opened up and blossomed.
But I kept this: It hurts me to be misunderstood. It saddens and scares me. Not much, just a little -- but being misunderstood, giving the wrong impression, is something I work hard to avoid.