great expectations

I'm going to let you in on a little secret: things are not always how they appear.

One of the things the human brain does is notice patterns. It's how we think more and more efficiently. When we do this, we require fewer cognitive resources to process our world. Synapses get pruned. Automaticity increases. Our information superhighway starts rolling along at 75 miles per hour.

What happens when the pattern we have decided upon is mistaken or wrong? In a word: cognitive chaos. Yes, I know that's two words. I'm advocating for cognitive flexibility --think of saying "a word" and then giving you two as limbering up. 

Try this experiment we do with kids to teach them about expectations: 

• Without any witnesses, get a box of something awesome --chocolates, candy, whatever you want.
• Take the awesome stuff out. You can eat it all yourself if you want to be like that, but I would set it aside to hand out later so you don't get shivved.
• Replace it with something boring or decidedly not awesome --cockroaches, bills, whatever you want.
• Then find a person who hasn't observed you doing this replacement and hand the box to them.

Yes, it's the old can of nuts-springy snake trick, but at this point, people expect the snake, so you have to get creative to be effective.

Do you think the person you hand the box to will expect a treat or a trick? You have given them a box that promises something they like and then reneged on this promise. (Incidentally, this works in reverse as well, if you put something they like in a box of something they dislike, only they'll avoid it rather than open it up.)

Things don't always go as planned. Remember to keep those great expectations flexible while you're roaring along. Confront your own prejudices. Reconsider your assumptions. And have a great day --I haven't put anything unpleasant in that box. 

observing constellations

Flash fiction, for the uninitiated, is exactly what it sounds like: fiction designed to be read quickly. For someone like me with a short attention span (which gets shorter by the day, it seems), it is ideal. All of the pieces that make up your favorite longer fiction are included in flash fiction. They can be humorous or serious, philosophical or ridiculous. Because of their brevity, the stories usually leave pieces for the reader to infer, which is particularly appealing for me --I like the opportunity to use my imagination and figure out the puzzle the writer has laid out for the reader.

Perhaps the most famous piece of flash fiction is Ernest Hemingway's apocryphal "For sale: baby shoes, never worn" (in case you weren't sure, yes, that is the entire story). Multitudes of meaning are contained in six words, and you, the reader, needed fewer than ten seconds to read it. Flash fiction is usually 1000 words or fewer, with the shortest examples readable in the blink of an eye.

The world is a little nutty right now (understatement). The 'flash' of flash fiction takes on new meaning in this new era. In addition to flash referring to how quick the stories are to read, there is another interpretation I've just considered: they are brief flickers, like shooting stars in the sky. During times when wonder is in short supply, the idea that you can have a story --ten stories, a hundred stories! --sparkling out there like little gems that you can collect and appreciate like the ephemera they are, it's a nice thought.

So here's one, an example, continuing with the theme:

Grandfather traces his finger across the night sky.

“Ursa Major. Find the edge of the pot and follow it across. There. That’s the North Star, Polaris. Polaris will always be north. The stars rotate with the seasons, but they don’t change their places in relation to one another. North will always be north, and you can always depend on the stars.”

Somewhere, down below the well-ordered constellations, at her grandfather’s side, the young girl looks away and watches the fireflies rearrange their points of light haphazardly in the dark.

Why don't you give it a try? And have a good night.