What was really happening was that his sense that intelligence was the most important measure of a person and that he had impatience and sometimes contempt for people who fell short was more evident than he knew.
I see this all the time in fandom, and saw it all the time growing up gifted and in gifted ed. Heck, I had the guilty-as-charged epiphany about that at some point, and with it, released most of the bitterness about Other Children into the wild, because I'm certain I was just as annoying to them as they were to me.
When I see it now, I just want to hit people with a huge clue stick that says brains are no excuse for being rude and unkind. (AKA, never assume that being better at something makes you a better or more worthy person.)
When I see it now, I just want to hit people with a huge clue stick that says brains are no excuse for being rude and unkind. (AKA, never assume that being better at something makes you a better or more worthy person.)
And the corollary: don't assume that because you can't perceive the intelligence in the person you're making the assumption about, it isn't there.
It's all in the perception.
Drabble. Yes, 100 words.
By What I Am Not
Here, take my wallet. Look through it. No, go for it - it's okay.
What do you see?
Credit cards. Drivers license. Donor card. Receipts. Money.
What's missing?
Pictures, of course. I have a husband I love. I have a child, same. I have family.
Long ago, when part of me broke and petrified, I stopped carrying pictures. Once, I did; in 1975, I had a plastic insert in my wallet. When I flipped it open, there were eight pictures of you, me, us.
No pictures anymore, not of husband, child, myself. So, define me by what isn't there: invisible.
And a hundred words exactly. That ought to make somebody happy. I'm just not sure who.
You maybe? Satisfaction of meeting a challenge? And the rest of us, not so much for the nice round number, as for getting to enjoy it - but with the added little frisson of getting to watch someone do something a little bit hard in field they are good at.
Here are two from me:
I can tell a lot about a woman from her bookshelves. Mine have more than a few stories, namely how they encroach upon the space here and are still not satisfied, room of their own and all. I have two copies of David Simon’s Homicide. There is probably a Bible here somewhere, but I don’t know where it is. Are my priorities skewed, or am I really honest? Intimidating research books that make Amazon think I’m a cop, waiting eagerly for breakthroughs in ballistics. Erotica Vampirica, Bridget Jones. A cry from the heart called “What Should I Do With My Life?” Which is the real story here? Are any of them?
Other people’s bookshelves tell stories too. If your books are mostly condensed, you get to the back of my line. When I was younger, and an even bolder drawer-of-lines than I am now, I might have said something, too, had my friends call me harsh. Condense that.
I often think it’s a testimony to the strength of my friendship that I could be M.’s friend after I found out she had Pat Robertson books. Although it’s been years and we are not friends anymore...who knows why, but at least I didn’t actually have to form the words:
”Your reading material makes me nauseous.”
erika jumped my next choice - I was thinking about the madness that is our bookshelves.
Satisfaction of meeting a challenge?
Thing is, I wasn't trying for it. I wrote it, tweaked one thing that wanted tweaking, and then did a word count, and it came up 100 exactly.
Not skill - kismet. Or accident. Or something.
Well, I'm sure different writers could write about that and it'd come out fresh everytime.
I considered writing about how it looks like four people with very strong opinions wrote my netflix list.
Finished my Rowling draft. Anyone want to beta? I'm out of here in half an hour, so there's no rush. Marlene has it, as does BB.
