I used to think being naive was more of a personality trait than anything else. I was naive about things because I was an introvert, a perpetually slightly out of it person who as often as not didn’t get the joke. Now I think it’s mostly a symptom of privilege.
I got to be naive, because I didn’t really suffer from it. People were gently amused by me and all the things I missed, and I got to stay in my own little world without any real consequences.
I went to college early but I didn’t really have to grow up fast. Instead, I got to muddle my way through things, and the walls that I bumped into along the way were highly padded and so did no real damage. I got to believe highly idealistic things about the world and not be sharply corrected.
I was lucky. I was privileged.
I am lucky. I am privileged.
My naivety was/is a luxury.
Writing notes: I’m starting to get very cautiously excited about my work-in-progress. It’s going to be a long road to figure some of it out, but I’m beginning to see the edges better, or at least some interesting shapes in the middle.
Reading notes: I’m in the middle of A Study in Charlotte, which I’m really enjoying. It’s been a good month for books. I read three by Chicagoan (or recently Chicagoan) authors: In the Grip of It, by Jac Jemc, The Wrong Way to Save Your Life, by Megan Stielstra, and We Are Never Meeting in Real Life, by Samantha Irby. All of them different, all of them excellent.