I spend a disproportionate amount of time on the computer. And, honestly, I don't even know how. A lot of the time, I just sit there bored out of my mind, wondering what it is I usually do, and then suddenly it's two hours later.
That being said, I know a pathetic amount about technology for the amount of time I spend using it.
I can work a computer. I know that when the Internet is slow, you disconnect and reconnect some wires in the "router" or whatever that thing is. I don't really do much with it other than waste time though. I don't browse, necessarily. I'm more of a "save a few different websites and keep going back to them five times a day" kind of user. I learned how to use Excel/Spreadsheet (something that I've used more times than I would've thought this year for a few econ projects, so thank you). I was once a GarageBand whiz. I used to Skype my sister every now and then. iTunes is a great tool to fill that void of silence, followed closely by YouTube.
As a writer, Word is my best friend. A pretty straightforward relationship: type type type, Command+s (save), type type type, Command+q (quit), click save, done. Dropbox, if you don't know what that is, is totally useful as a writer too. It's this app you download from online and it lets you save Word documents and other things like that to the Dropbox folder, and you can access the document online or, if you download the app on another device, you can access it that way too. It's really helpful for when I work on something on my computer and then want to work on it on my laptop instead.
Something I was introduced to late last year that I've been using all year in newspaper, is InDesign 6 (I think that's how its' stylized, but don't quote me on it). Honestly, I'm not all that clear on what it is exactly, but it's what editors of newspapers use to layout the pages. There's lots of buttons and clicking and boxes involved that I never remember until I'm sitting there in front of the page, but I know that if I go into journalism, it's one of the things that will keep popping up. According to Mr. Barr, the newspaper advisor, InDesign 6 is the version of InDesign they use at the collegiate and professional level so I have a head-up on all those posers (I kid . . . mostly).
I know that there's this idea that teenagers need to be attached to their phone 24/7, but for me, headphones, an iPhone, and a book will keep me occupied just as well and even better when I'm outside. I text and call my sister occasionally, sometimes my mom. Once in a while, a friend. For the most part, though, my phone is for show. And games. It's terrible. Sometimes I spend more time playing games on my phone than anything else. 2048 ruined my life.
To be completely honest, I have no idea what kind of technological-digital-whilly-nilly kind of skills I'll need later in life. For the most part, I think I'm set. I'm not going into a high-tech field of work. The kind of tech I do need to know I have some experience with. Anything I do need to learn, I'll learn on the job (I'm a quick learner when I want to be). I could be better with a camera, I guess.
The only thing--the ONLY THING--I absolutely refuse to ever try to use, even if she shows up everywhere I go in ten years, is Siri. Siri is the beginning of the end of the world. I am not kidding in any way when I say that when robots and technology finally rise up against the human race, I am on hundred percent positive that Siri will be leading the rebellion. (This may sound like a joke, but this has been a legitimate fear of mine ever since I saw the movie I, Robot with Will Smith, which is a great movie and if you haven't seen it you totally should. Seriously, Siri is just the start. The next step will be the cars that park themselves. Once they figure out they don't need us, we're screwed.)
May 4, 2014
The Adventures of Red Sparrow and Spitfire
Award winning short story by Erica Drake that she started reading in class and promised she would post on her blog which she forgot to do until now.
Here we go.
“I
feel ridiculous. We look like idiots.”
“Would
you rather wear the cape?”
“No.”
Pause.
“Maybe.”
Spitfire
took a deep breath in through her nose, out through her mouth—a vain attempt to
calm her jittery nerves—and looked down at her costume for the hundredth time
that night. A red, orange, and yellow leotard much like something you would see
a circus acrobat wear, most likely because this came from her time as a circus
performer. The lightweight Kevlar she wore underneath was a bit different
though.
Another
deep breath, because this was it. This was the night Spitfire, gymnast
extraordinaire and martial art (almost) master, made her heroic debut alongside
her expert mentor Red Sparrow. After years of preparation and training, this
was it.
Spitfire
breathed in deeply once again and was about to let it out when she caught her
mentor’s look and frowned. “Stop that.”
“Stop
what?” Red Sparrow asked, her voice seeping with affection. It reminded
Spitfire of the first time she’d pulled off a standing back flip when she was five
with Red Sparrow looking on, wearing the exact same expression she had now
underneath her mask.
“Stop
looking at me like that,” Spitfire demanded.
“Like
what?” Red Sparrow said obliviously.
“Like
your baby’s all grown up.”
Red
Sparrow laughed and reached for Spitfire’s cheeks, pinching them hard. “But you are all grown up,” she cooed. “And you are my baby.”
Spitfire
swatted away the pinching hands and scowled. “Stop it. You’re messing up the
mask.”
“And
it looks wonderful on you, kid.” Red Sparrow couldn’t stop the grin from
growing on her face.
“Stop
it!”
The
night grew darker and the city below them came to life. Spitfire watched from
their seat on the roof of the tallest building of the city as neon signs
flickered, people poured into streets, and the sounds of honking and yelling
that followed traffic filled the air.
Red
Sparrow went from playful to serious so fast Spitfire hardly had a chance to
enjoy the scenery.
“Okay,”
Red Sparrow said. “We’re about to start. Are you ready?”
Spitfire’s
heart was about to leap out of her chest and her stomach was doing little
flips. She was going to barf any second now. She took a deep breath, silently
gagged, and nodded.
Red
Sparrow nodded once. “Is your com in?”
Spitfire
pressed a hand against the little communication device in her ear. “Check.”
Red
Sparrow nodded again before bringing her hand to her own ear. “Q?” she said.
“Q, are you there?”
“Yeah,
sorry.” Q’s voice filled Spitfire’s ear as the com came to life. She heard the
light clacking of typing on a keyboard as Q settled in to his cushy desk chair
in front of a wall of computer screens back at home base. Spitfire wished she
were there with him. “My pizza just showed up.”
“You’re
eating pizza?” she scoffed. “We’re trying to protect the city and you’re eating
pizza?”
“I’ve
got four slices of pepperoni with your name on it when you get back.”
Spitfire
pouted. “Thanks.”
Red
Sparrow glared at her. “Focus, will you? Both of you?”
They
mumbled apologies before Red Sparrow continued. “Okay, remember, this is just a
routine patrol. Stay on the roofs and stay out of sight. Do not engage unless
absolutely necessary. Q, have you got us eyes?”
There
was a slight pause on the other end of the com before Q said, “Got it.”
“Good,”
she said, smiling reassuringly under her mask. “It’ll be fine. You’re gonna do
great, kid.”
Spitfire
gulped. “Easy for you to say. You’ve been doing this for, what, a year already?
I’m not a hero. I’m just a circus freak.”
Red
Sparrow laid a hand on Spitfire’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m a circus freak too,
remember? Just pretend you’re on stage.”
“This
is nothing like the stage!”
Spitfire
suddenly couldn’t breath at all. She forgot how to flip and punch and kick. She
didn’t even think she could touch her toes right now if she tried.
“This
is nothing like the stage!” she said again. “There’s nobody else around! I have
to stay out of sight and no one will even know I’m there! There’s no net to
catch me if I fall off the roof! There isn’t even a crowd to get me going! This is nothing like the
stage!”
Applause
erupted in her ear, causing her to wince.
“What
was that, Q?” she asked, slightly ticked off that Q interrupted her panicking.
“A
crowd to get you going,” he answered. “Don’t be so nervous, kid. I’m watching
you. I’m cheering you on. And I’ve got a whole bunch of sound effects in here
if you ever need something else to get you going. Don't forget the pizza when
you’re done.”
She
let out a breath of laughter but she couldn’t stop shaking.
Red
Sparrow tightened her grip on Spitfire’s shoulder. “And don’t forget,” she
said. “I’m here to catch you if you fall.”
Spitfire
grinned. “That was so cheesy I’m gonna puke.”
Red
Sparrow smiled back, shoving Spitfire’s shoulder. “Are we ready?”
“Ready,”
Q answered around a mouthful of pizza.
Spitfire
gulped loudly, swallowing the last of her nerves, and looked at her mentor.
“We’re partners, right?”
“Of
course,” Red Sparrow answered without hesitation.
Spitfire
took one last deep breath, clenched her fists, and then nodded. “Ready.”
*
* * * *
Red
Sparrow told her to act like she was going on stage. So that’s what Spitfire
did.
Instead
of walking or running across the roofs, she leapt and flipped and twisted and
whenever she pulled off a particularly wonderful stunt, she asked Q for some
applause. He happily obliged.
Because
this was her first time, Spitfire stayed in the busier part of the city where
buildings were taller and more plentiful—and more or less the same size making
it easier to maneuver. Red Sparrow took some of the more suburban areas where
staying hidden was harder. Q kept an eye on both of them through traffic
cameras, ATMs, and security systems, anything with a camera pointed toward the
streets.
Out
of sight and in the shadows, Spitfire heard Red Sparrow’s voice in her ear an
hour and two and a half rounds later.
“How’s
it going on your end?” her mentor asked.
Spitfire
stopped her performance and crouched at the edge of the building she was on.
Panting lightly, she looked over the city laid out in front of her, at the
twinkling lights and the people clearing out. The streets were nearly empty. It
was making her anxious.
With
a crowd, people were distracted. She could get away with careless mistakes like
jumping too high or flipping too flamboyantly because no one bothered to look
up. The less people there were, the more likely they were to be alone, and the
more likely they were to notice a flash of yellow against the night sky. She
wondered again why she picked this costume.
She
took a deep breath before answering. “Quiet, I guess. Really . . . quiet.”
“Good.”
Red Sparrow sounded proud, like it was thanks to Spitfire that nothing was
going on. “Keep it up.”
“Um,
for how much longer?”
“Just
another hour or two.”
“Oh,
is that all?” Spitfire muttered.
“What
was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.
Now get going.”
After
what felt like hours of flipping and aching muscles, she stopped at another
building for a quick break—this was very different from a stage, in more ways
than one—and did another once over of the city. Then something caught her eye:
a completely empty street of stores, restaurants, and banks.
Suspicious,
she thought.
“Hey
Q,” she said, heading over. She squinted at the street sign. “Check out Crest
Street really fast for me, will you?”
Q
yawned. “You got it.”
Spitfire
smirked. “Tired much?”
“Not
even,” he answered stubbornly. “Crest Street. Looks pretty quiet from here.
Why?”
And
she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to say, “It’s quiet, Q. Too quiet.”
She
took her time with Crest Street, closely watching each store and restaurant and
bank. She was about to move on to another street when a certain jewelry store
came into view. Something inside glittered brightly before disappearing. She
looked harder and saw more glittering before it stopped.
“Q,”
she said. “Check inside a jewelry store called Oracle Jewels on Crest.”
“Checking,
and . . . Duuude.”
“Someone’s
in there, right?”
“And
he’s cleaning it out. Red, what do you want to do?”
Red
Sparrow thought for a second before answering. “Trip the alarm. Get the police
in there fast.”
Spitfire
watched the thief carefully. “They won’t make it in time. The guy’s about ready
to bolt. I think I should—“
“No,”
Red Sparrow said.
“You
don’t even know—“
“You
want to engage.”
“So
maybe you do know.”
“And
I say not to. The police will handle it.”
“But
they won’t make it in time. He’s gonna get away. Come on, just let me do this.
What happened to all that faith you had in me earlier?"
“No.
You may have been doing circus tricks since you were six but you only just
started learning how to fight. You don’t have enough experience to—“
“Come
on, Red,” Q interrupted. “Stop babying her. It’s just a jewel thief. I’m sure
the kid can handle it.”
"'Just
a jewel thief' he says." She sighed. There was a long pause before she
said, “Fine. But be—“
“Careful!”
Spitfire said excitedly, already on her way to the store. “Got it! Check back
later!”
*
* * * *
Tommy
couldn’t believe how easy this was. The alarm system was a cinch to hack and
the jewels themselves were locked up with simple level 2 Chaste-E locks. With a
low chuckle, he threw the final piece of jewelry into his bag and relocked the
case. He tied his bag closed and turned to the door, ready to make his getaway.
“Dude,
sloppy.”
Tommy
jumped at the voice. He looked around but couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s there?”
“Over
here.”
He
jumped again and turned around. There, with one hand on her hip, stood a girl
in a red mask covering half her face and a red, orange, and yellow costume.
She
smiled at him. “Hi. Like I said, sloppy. You didn’t even try to hack the
cameras. Or cover your face. At least you wore gloves. No finger prints.”
Tommy
didn’t exactly know what was going on, but he knew enough to be offended. “I’m
not taking thieving advice from some girl in a costume. What, did Halloween
come early this year?”
“I
knew it!” The girl stood up straight and looked down at herself. “I should’ve
gone with the cape!”
By
now Tommy was thoroughly confused. It must’ve shown on his face because the
girl looked up and said, “Sorry, first time. Refocusing. Now, put the jewels
down.”
He
scoffed. “Really? Or what? You’re gonna give me your cooties? How old are you?
Twelve?”
And
then, so fast he barely had time to react, she flipped across the floor,
tackled him to the ground, and landed sitting on his chest. She was glaring at
him from under her mask.
“I’m
fourteen.”
And
then everything went black.
*
* * * *
“And
Red Sparrow has struck again. Late last night, an unnamed thief attempted to
rob Oracle Jewels on Crest Street but was stopped and apprehended before police
arrived on the scene. The thief was found unconscious outside the store, tied
with Red Sparrow’s signature red rope. However reports say that the hero who
stopped the thief was not Red Sparrow herself, but her sidekick, Spitfire. It
seems that there is not just one, but two heroes watching over us.”
“Got
that right.”
Parker
Carter smiled at the TV, enjoying the comfort of the plush couch underneath
her. Then she took a bite of her fourth slice of pepperoni pizza.
She
sat alone in the loft. Her aunt Jemma left for some job interviews and Quentin
went to work. Parker shook her head. She always thought that for a computer
genius that could hack the whole city Quentin could do so much better than a
part time gig at Best Buy.
But
the city was still new to them. The three of them had just moved in to the
loft. The place still echoed. Things could only get better. Parker smiled at
the TV screen when a picture of a black head with a question mark showed up
with the caption “Who is Red Sparrow?”
Of
course things would get better.
“Hey,
Parker.”
Parker
looked to see Jemma walking in to the loft.
“Watcha
watching?” Jemma asked, leaning against the back of the couch.
“The
fruit of my labors,” Parker grinned. “Not sure how I feel about the whole
sidekick thing though.”
Jemma
grinned. “Don’t worry about it, partner. You did good, kid.”
Parker
smiled. “Yeah. So, how goes the job hunting?”
“Don’t
ask. The real world is so hard.” Jemma sighed and walked away, Parker
following.
Parker
nodded understandingly. “Circus life was so much easier.” She watched her aunt
search through a bag sitting on a tabletop. “Watcha got there?”
Jemma
shrugged. “Just a little something.” She pulled out a small box tied with a red
ribbon and handed it to Parker. “For a job well done.”
She
tugged on the ribbon then lifted the lid and there, sitting on a pad of cotton,
sat a pair of sleek, black sunglasses. She looked up to see her aunt wearing a
matching pair over her eyes.
Parker
smiled. “Explain?”
“We’re
heroes now, you know?” Jemma shrugged. “Living in the big city and making things
safe. Heroes have secret identities. We have to protect ours. Both of us.”
As
she put them on, Parker asked, “With sunglasses?”
“Well,
if you don’t want them—“
“I
never said that. How do I look?” She struck a pose.
Jemma
smiled. “Hardly recognized you.”
iReflect: A Look in the Mirror (And Over the Last Seven Months)
My mom's motivation for me joining iQuest was for me to get a job. My motivation for joining iQuest was to get out of fifth period.
Honestly, and rather naively, I said this on my application for iQuest. What can I say? It was the middle of summer when I decided to apply and the lack of a face-to-face interview made me brave. Still, I was able to get into the class and indulge myself in writing and fifth period free once/twice a week.
The class was a lot more work than I thought it'd be, to be honest. Like, we actually did stuff. We got assignments and had to think about things and everything. Not that it was particularly hard or anything, but still, it wasn't what I was expecting. I'm not complaining (really . . . okay maybe sorta kinda) because in the end it ended being a lot of stuff I really needed to know. Like how to work a spreadsheet. I ended up needing to know that for an Econ project I did recently and it's probably something I'll need to know later on too.
But while I appreciate all the important life skills I learned in this class this year (that I wouldn't have learned in any other class, thank you very much, my college-but-not-real-world prep school), that wasn't what this year was about. So what was it about?
Writing. Writing. Writing writing writing.
Writing.
I've wanted to be a writer for ten years, at least. I love it. I love the act of it. I love the feel of the keys clicking under my fingers as I type away a story on the keyboard. I love the sense of accomplishment when I put together a sentence that I just can't get enough of. I even love the frustration of that comes along with writer's block.
Favorite part of this year? Being given time to enjoy what I love.
Which I totally needed in the month of November because (wait for it) of NaNoWriMo. In case any of my faithful readers (I'm looking at all two of you) forgot, NaNoWriMo (aka National Novel Writing Month) is a month long writing marathon that requires you to churn out 50,000 words of a novel you wrote in the month of November alone. I won, thank you very much, with a whopping 50,607 words, which I am very proud of because on top of writing that monster, I also had school, homework, college apps, and college essays. All of which, I am proud to report, I managed to get through alive. An easy feat by no means. November Productivity Levels: Off the Charts.
Rest of the Year Productivity Levels: Off the Charts in the Other Direction.
That's the one thing that upset me the most. I don't know what it was, maybe I was in a period of mourning after finishing that first book, but trying to write anything else became five times harder than it was before. I honestly don't know what happened. I can't even blame it on senioritis (which has hit me hard in every aspect of my life) because I usually write to avoid school. If I could go back, I would have worked five times as hard to write to make up for the five times harder it was.
Despite that, my passion for writing has never waned (I've even been trying to expand my everyday lexicon to get used to all those words). I've never been more motivated to become a writer than I am at this very moment, when writing is the hardest thing I could ever attempt to do. And I made it through Pre-Calc. That's saying something.
Before this year, though, I was a little embarrassed about it. Embarrassed about my dream. How messed up is that? When I looked around, I saw people wanting to be a businessman or an artist or a chef and those things all seemed like completely viable professions. But a writer? How many people did I see actually want to do that after dreading all those essays?
What this year did for me that nothing else would ever have done, and what I am completely grateful it did, was that it forced me to share with everyone what my passion. I would tell people I was in iQuest, they would ask what that was, I would explain it, and then they would ask me what I was doing for the class.
"Oh, I go home and work on a project."
"Really? What project?"
"Well, I'm sorta kinda maybe actually trying to, you know, write a book."
"Wow, that's cool. What is it about?"
Which I was very happy to hear and very reluctant to answer. So while only a handful of people actually know what it's about, at least two handfuls of people know that I am in fact writing a book. Which is about two handfuls more than there would ever have been if I hadn't taken this class.
So thank you.
I was a little apprehensive about this whole program when I first walked into the classroom the third day of school because of how open I had to be about the whole thing, but I am completely and totally and undeniably grateful for the opportunity this class has given me and I would tell anyone considering this class that it is completely and totally and undeniably worth every second.
Thank you, iQuest.
(After blog post shout out to my mentor Mrs. Peggy Dulle, the iQuest teacher Mrs. Cindy Bonagura, and my mom, sister, uncle, and grandma because this would've have been the year it was without them.)
Honestly, and rather naively, I said this on my application for iQuest. What can I say? It was the middle of summer when I decided to apply and the lack of a face-to-face interview made me brave. Still, I was able to get into the class and indulge myself in writing and fifth period free once/twice a week.
The class was a lot more work than I thought it'd be, to be honest. Like, we actually did stuff. We got assignments and had to think about things and everything. Not that it was particularly hard or anything, but still, it wasn't what I was expecting. I'm not complaining (really . . . okay maybe sorta kinda) because in the end it ended being a lot of stuff I really needed to know. Like how to work a spreadsheet. I ended up needing to know that for an Econ project I did recently and it's probably something I'll need to know later on too.
But while I appreciate all the important life skills I learned in this class this year (that I wouldn't have learned in any other class, thank you very much, my college-but-not-real-world prep school), that wasn't what this year was about. So what was it about?
Writing. Writing. Writing writing writing.
Writing.
I've wanted to be a writer for ten years, at least. I love it. I love the act of it. I love the feel of the keys clicking under my fingers as I type away a story on the keyboard. I love the sense of accomplishment when I put together a sentence that I just can't get enough of. I even love the frustration of that comes along with writer's block.
Favorite part of this year? Being given time to enjoy what I love.
Which I totally needed in the month of November because (wait for it) of NaNoWriMo. In case any of my faithful readers (I'm looking at all two of you) forgot, NaNoWriMo (aka National Novel Writing Month) is a month long writing marathon that requires you to churn out 50,000 words of a novel you wrote in the month of November alone. I won, thank you very much, with a whopping 50,607 words, which I am very proud of because on top of writing that monster, I also had school, homework, college apps, and college essays. All of which, I am proud to report, I managed to get through alive. An easy feat by no means. November Productivity Levels: Off the Charts.
Rest of the Year Productivity Levels: Off the Charts in the Other Direction.
That's the one thing that upset me the most. I don't know what it was, maybe I was in a period of mourning after finishing that first book, but trying to write anything else became five times harder than it was before. I honestly don't know what happened. I can't even blame it on senioritis (which has hit me hard in every aspect of my life) because I usually write to avoid school. If I could go back, I would have worked five times as hard to write to make up for the five times harder it was.
Despite that, my passion for writing has never waned (I've even been trying to expand my everyday lexicon to get used to all those words). I've never been more motivated to become a writer than I am at this very moment, when writing is the hardest thing I could ever attempt to do. And I made it through Pre-Calc. That's saying something.
Before this year, though, I was a little embarrassed about it. Embarrassed about my dream. How messed up is that? When I looked around, I saw people wanting to be a businessman or an artist or a chef and those things all seemed like completely viable professions. But a writer? How many people did I see actually want to do that after dreading all those essays?
What this year did for me that nothing else would ever have done, and what I am completely grateful it did, was that it forced me to share with everyone what my passion. I would tell people I was in iQuest, they would ask what that was, I would explain it, and then they would ask me what I was doing for the class.
"Oh, I go home and work on a project."
"Really? What project?"
"Well, I'm sorta kinda maybe actually trying to, you know, write a book."
"Wow, that's cool. What is it about?"
Which I was very happy to hear and very reluctant to answer. So while only a handful of people actually know what it's about, at least two handfuls of people know that I am in fact writing a book. Which is about two handfuls more than there would ever have been if I hadn't taken this class.
So thank you.
I was a little apprehensive about this whole program when I first walked into the classroom the third day of school because of how open I had to be about the whole thing, but I am completely and totally and undeniably grateful for the opportunity this class has given me and I would tell anyone considering this class that it is completely and totally and undeniably worth every second.
Thank you, iQuest.
(After blog post shout out to my mentor Mrs. Peggy Dulle, the iQuest teacher Mrs. Cindy Bonagura, and my mom, sister, uncle, and grandma because this would've have been the year it was without them.)
Apr 6, 2014
The Importance of Being Optimistic
"If you don't get everything you want, think of the things you don't get that you don't want." --Oscar Wilde
I really like Oscar Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest was my favorite play to read freshman year. I've seen a lot of his quotes other places and they always say the absolute truth in the most hilarious way it can be said. While this isn't his funniest quote (my personal favorite is "Everything popular is wrong"), it is one of the ones I can relate to the most.
Whenever I feel bad I always think of worse things that could've happened to me and that always makes me feel better . . . which is actually a rather pessimistic way to be optimistic now that I put it into words. But knowing that things aren't as bad as they could be is really comforting, mostly because I don't buy in to that "it's only downhill from here" thinking. I'm more of a "after you've hit rock bottom, the only place to go is up" kind of person.
That's sort of what I see in this quote. It might be bad now, but it could always be worse and there's comfort in the fact that it can only get better.
Aw, wasn't that insightful? Use that when I'm famous.
Believe
(Look at this place. This is heaven.)
I really like Oscar Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest was my favorite play to read freshman year. I've seen a lot of his quotes other places and they always say the absolute truth in the most hilarious way it can be said. While this isn't his funniest quote (my personal favorite is "Everything popular is wrong"), it is one of the ones I can relate to the most.
Whenever I feel bad I always think of worse things that could've happened to me and that always makes me feel better . . . which is actually a rather pessimistic way to be optimistic now that I put it into words. But knowing that things aren't as bad as they could be is really comforting, mostly because I don't buy in to that "it's only downhill from here" thinking. I'm more of a "after you've hit rock bottom, the only place to go is up" kind of person.
That's sort of what I see in this quote. It might be bad now, but it could always be worse and there's comfort in the fact that it can only get better.
Aw, wasn't that insightful? Use that when I'm famous.
Believe
Mar 10, 2014
Buckets, Metaphors, and You
Buckets. Fun things, buckets. Very easy to apply metaphors to, aren't they?
So what is the Bucket Metaphor of this week? That of Tim Rath's that basically says you have this metaphorical bucket that you want to fill with non-metaphorical good feelings so that the metaphorical dipper doesn't metaphorically empty your metaphorical bucket to leave non-metaphorical bad feelings.
Buckets. Metaphors. They just go hand-in-hand.
But how do you make this metaphor a reality? (I'm actually really proud of that segue. Just saying.)
1) Shine a light on what's right: Focus on a person's strengths instead of their weaknesses. Instead of highlighting what someone did wrong, praise what someone did right.
For example, if three different students each came home with different grades--an A, C, and F respectively--which student would warrant the most attention? In America especially, most would answer the F. But what this rule is saying is that maybe, just maybe, focusing on the A would be most beneficial.
I like this one. I lived this one. I'm really bad as science and math and things like that (I'm a writer, what do you want from me?) and so my grades in those subjects a while ago weren't as high as my mom would've liked. They weren't terrible, but I could've done better. My mom wasted no time letting me know that. Every. Single. Day. Eventually I got so tired of it, I just didn't want to even try in those classes anymore. Finally I just told her to stop nagging me about my bad grades (not in those exact words, but you get the idea). I came home and told her all the good test grades I got and you know what? My grades got better. Go figure.
2) Give unexpectedly: That pretty much says it all, right? Christmas and birthdays aren't the only days people like being given things, and when they come out of the blue that just makes those things infinitely better.
In the workplace, for example, giving someone more responsibility makes them feel good, especially when they don't expect it (although a day or two of warning might be nice, you don't want to stress them out).
This happens to me in newspaper a lot, actually. When my advisor asks me to do something, like type out the budget, I don't know why but it makes me feel good. I feel like, in his eyes, I am trustworthy enough to do something like that.
3) Reverse the Golden Rule: I don't remember Tim Rath's exact words, but basically this is saying that what fills your bucket won't necessarily fill someone else's.
Tim Rath brought up an example of a man who was given a plaque as an award for being the best employee every year by a woman who loved being given plaques. The man freaked out one year and absolutely refused to accept the plaque. The next year, after extensive research, the woman presented the man with a portrait of his two daughters as a reward for his hard work. And you know what? He liked it.
Well in my life . . . I'm not sure this ever happened to me. Hm. I might like a plaque though.
There are five steps according to Tim Rath, but these three happened to be the ones I liked the most. I like being praised and being given things, especially things that pertain to me personally. But I tend to fill other people's buckets more than my own. I dip that one way too much.
So what is the Bucket Metaphor of this week? That of Tim Rath's that basically says you have this metaphorical bucket that you want to fill with non-metaphorical good feelings so that the metaphorical dipper doesn't metaphorically empty your metaphorical bucket to leave non-metaphorical bad feelings.
Buckets. Metaphors. They just go hand-in-hand.
But how do you make this metaphor a reality? (I'm actually really proud of that segue. Just saying.)
1) Shine a light on what's right: Focus on a person's strengths instead of their weaknesses. Instead of highlighting what someone did wrong, praise what someone did right.
For example, if three different students each came home with different grades--an A, C, and F respectively--which student would warrant the most attention? In America especially, most would answer the F. But what this rule is saying is that maybe, just maybe, focusing on the A would be most beneficial.
I like this one. I lived this one. I'm really bad as science and math and things like that (I'm a writer, what do you want from me?) and so my grades in those subjects a while ago weren't as high as my mom would've liked. They weren't terrible, but I could've done better. My mom wasted no time letting me know that. Every. Single. Day. Eventually I got so tired of it, I just didn't want to even try in those classes anymore. Finally I just told her to stop nagging me about my bad grades (not in those exact words, but you get the idea). I came home and told her all the good test grades I got and you know what? My grades got better. Go figure.
2) Give unexpectedly: That pretty much says it all, right? Christmas and birthdays aren't the only days people like being given things, and when they come out of the blue that just makes those things infinitely better.
In the workplace, for example, giving someone more responsibility makes them feel good, especially when they don't expect it (although a day or two of warning might be nice, you don't want to stress them out).
This happens to me in newspaper a lot, actually. When my advisor asks me to do something, like type out the budget, I don't know why but it makes me feel good. I feel like, in his eyes, I am trustworthy enough to do something like that.
3) Reverse the Golden Rule: I don't remember Tim Rath's exact words, but basically this is saying that what fills your bucket won't necessarily fill someone else's.
Tim Rath brought up an example of a man who was given a plaque as an award for being the best employee every year by a woman who loved being given plaques. The man freaked out one year and absolutely refused to accept the plaque. The next year, after extensive research, the woman presented the man with a portrait of his two daughters as a reward for his hard work. And you know what? He liked it.
Well in my life . . . I'm not sure this ever happened to me. Hm. I might like a plaque though.
There are five steps according to Tim Rath, but these three happened to be the ones I liked the most. I like being praised and being given things, especially things that pertain to me personally. But I tend to fill other people's buckets more than my own. I dip that one way too much.
Feb 23, 2014
This is Essential (Question)
Q: To what extent is the decline of reading among Americans?
A: Let me get back to you.
I was having issues coming up with a question. I came up with a few and did some bare minimum research for them, just to see which one would be easiest to find stuff for. And you know what? They were all freaking hard. Apparently no one cares about books (excuse me while I go sit in the corner and cry for a while).
I was really attached to this question, though, because I can't believe that there are people that don't read. Like, at all. I grew up in a family of book lovers and my whole life now basically revolves around books and words and things like that. So I endured and endured and found articles that related to this. As a result, I would just like to say this: HA! Take that! (Although, I don't really know who/what that's directed to. Let's go with the world.)
I had no other motivation for choosing this question other than pure curiosity. I'm not a major math person, but these are the kinds of numbers I want to know about. How many people don't read? What's it like compared to previous years? Don't comic books count? The list goes on.
Really, though, I don't find essays to be all that fun. Even ones where I can pick my own topic. I find it really hard to come up with an argument and find actual proof that shows why I'm right. Honestly, as a teenager, my best argument is "Just 'cause, man." Essays are just really hard and I don't see them getting any easier any time soon. But, as they say, practice makes perfect. And, as I say, my writerly pride is on the line. (Now that I think about it, I actually do say that quite a bit.)
A: Let me get back to you.
I was having issues coming up with a question. I came up with a few and did some bare minimum research for them, just to see which one would be easiest to find stuff for. And you know what? They were all freaking hard. Apparently no one cares about books (excuse me while I go sit in the corner and cry for a while).
I was really attached to this question, though, because I can't believe that there are people that don't read. Like, at all. I grew up in a family of book lovers and my whole life now basically revolves around books and words and things like that. So I endured and endured and found articles that related to this. As a result, I would just like to say this: HA! Take that! (Although, I don't really know who/what that's directed to. Let's go with the world.)
I had no other motivation for choosing this question other than pure curiosity. I'm not a major math person, but these are the kinds of numbers I want to know about. How many people don't read? What's it like compared to previous years? Don't comic books count? The list goes on.
Really, though, I don't find essays to be all that fun. Even ones where I can pick my own topic. I find it really hard to come up with an argument and find actual proof that shows why I'm right. Honestly, as a teenager, my best argument is "Just 'cause, man." Essays are just really hard and I don't see them getting any easier any time soon. But, as they say, practice makes perfect. And, as I say, my writerly pride is on the line. (Now that I think about it, I actually do say that quite a bit.)
Feb 16, 2014
A Plot Twist to the Utmost Extreme
I started the day out wearing new pants, uncomfortable shoes, and my mom's shirt and I walked away with $100. If that's not a plot twist then I don't know what is.
I didn't have many expectations walking into the Junior Achievement Social Innovation Camp. Honestly, I was just really excited about the free food (and let me just say, the food did not disappoint). Really, if you think about it, the camp just combines like fifty of my least favorite things: social interaction, social interaction with people I don't know, waking up too early in the morning, thinking too early in the morning. Talking. The list goes on.
Plot Twist #2: I actually enjoyed it.
I know. Just let that sink in for a second.
Well, enjoy might not be the most accurate word but at least it wasn't the complete torture I thought it was going to be, you know? (I'm kidding, ha ha . . . ) I did find the experience to be educational and I feel like I benefitted a lot from it. You know, in more than just a monetary sense (although money is never a bad thing).
I learned that, hey, I can sit in an office for more than a few hours and talk to people I don't know, give my opinion and input, and work. I also learned that I don't think I'm exactly cut out for doing that nine to five, five days a week. It was surprisingly satisfying to come up with an idea and make it work but I felt claustrophobic stuck in that conference room after one hour. Eight hours a day? I'm not sure I'd survive. At least I now know that I wouldn't totally fail at the whole business thing. Another door just opened up and that is completely reassuring.
I think my favorite part (other than the food) might've been sitting in that office with my team members, looking at each other while we were completely lost on what to do and how to do it, and wondering (hoping) if all the other teams were having the same problems we were. I don't know why. Don't ask. I just had fun with that thought.
Which leads me to my next favorite part: watching all the other presentations. It was amazing to see what everyone else came up with and wondering how they came up with the idea and how agonizing the process was to make it presentable. I enjoyed them a lot more after my group went.
And here is as good a place as any to mention that I don't think I am built for public speaking. The fifteen minutes before my group was up, I couldn't even enjoy being done with the thinking part because my knees and my elbows were shaking so much. And don't even get me started on breathing! I think I almost passed out. It was such a relief getting it over with. I didn't care about the money at that point. I just didn't want to have to go through that whole thing again.
Plot Twist #3: Because, of course, I had to go through it again. (sigh)
Which brings us back to Plot Twist #1, in which my group actually won third place with the Wheel-A-Thon, a walk-a-thon with wheelchairs. Really, I'm still having a hard time believing that one.
Oh! It was also really cool that almost all of the teams in the top 6 that had to present again had a Cal kid. I was so proud. (Plot Twist #3.5: Erica gets school spirit.)
It was just one surprise after another at the camp but it did lead to one thing that someone (I won't mention who but she happens to be a certain iQuest teacher) said would happen: I am glad I went.
(Did I mention the food?)
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