In my opinion, I’m probably wrong

I’ve previously written about the value I’ve found in writing. I want to tell people the things I’m thinking. I want to share myself with others. Part of that feeling, that impulse, is a confidence, spiced with a dash of hubris, that I have something valuable to say.

Do you, though?

Hmm, good question, me.

Thanks

I think that I do have a valuable perspective. I don’t think it’s unique, by any means, but there are elements of the way I look at the world which I think are really useful. I wish that other people thought more like me in those ways.

Sounds like you believe your way of thinking is better

Well, no, not really. I don’t think that I have the One True Insight into human nature, or that my opinions are always well founded and correct. I’m sure that parts of my current worldview are not quite right, and that some things I’m just plain wrong about. I’m never going to be right about everything. What’s more, I don’t even know which things I’m wrong about!

In fact, that’s a really important piece of my outlook on the world: I don’t know what I don’t know. Socrates said about—

Oh, now you’re comparing yourself to the father of Western philosophy?

Huh?

You’re about to say that Socrates thought the same way you do, right?

Well, there are elements in common, but—

Talk about hubris, huh?

That’s hardly—

Can you believe this guy?

Oh my god, I don’t think I’m Socrates. Can’t I cite someone famous without you saying that I think I’m basically them?

Well—

And don’t you think you’re just a tad overcommitted to the “inner dialogue” bit?

… Fine. Go ahead

Thank you. Now.

Socrates said about a conversation he had with someone:

I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know anything great and good; but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing; whereas I, as I do not know anything, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than he, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know.

Credit Wikipedia

Socrates isn’t saying that he’s fundamentally better than his conversation partner, though clearly he believes that his approach is better. Indeed, he appears reluctant to make any value judgments at all, or to claim that he knows anything valuable.

Now, Socrates was very much a philosopher, and so getting in the weeds about how and whether he knows what he knows (epistemology) is very much his thing. For myself, I think that stuff is really important, sure, but I don’t know too much about it. Not enough to discuss it expertly.

What I do know is that I often hear people present their opinions with a certainty that seems, well, unrealistic. If I might be wrong, where do I get off saying “No, this is definitely fact”?

.

.

Oh, right, I stopped using the inner dialogue conceit. You can talk now.

So I’m at your beck and call, am I?

Look, can you just ask the question I’m thinking of?

Fine, but we’re having words later. Ahem. “What, so people should never share their opinions?” Happy?

Uh, sure, thanks.

No, I don’t think that. People should be free, welcome, even encouraged to express their opinions. What bothers me is when someone is so sure that they’re right, that they think anyone who disagrees must have an ulterior motive. “Ploni must be dishonest,” thinks Almoni, “at least with themselves; otherwise, how could Ploni not arrive at the same conclusion as me?”

That doesn’t seem fair. Different people think differently, right? Disagreement doesn’t imply dishonesty

Yeah, that’s what I think. We all have different experiences informing who we are today. I’m a different Yossi today than I would be if I had gone to a different high school, or studied something else in college, or hadn’t moved to Seattle. I don’t know how those Yossis would differ from me, but I know that they would. They would be different people than I am.

I’m also a different person now than I was two years ago. Not all that different, but that Yossi hadn’t yet fallen in love, or had his heart broken, or gone through this absolute nightmare of a pandemic. He thought about the world somewhat differently than I do. That Yossi and I might disagree on a number of things. Without all of the things I’ve gone through, all the things I’ve seen and done, all the people I’ve met, the shape of who I am would be different.

Are you so good at changing your mind, then?

I try. I try really hard. And it’s not easy! There’s a great deal of comfort in knowing, believing, that the world is a certain way, and that you understand it. When things change, whether because your opinions change, or you learn new things, or the world around you changes, it’s disconcerting. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not a feeling I enjoy.

But it’s important. I don’t like being wrong, but I know that sometimes, I will be. So I need to be willing to ask, am I wrong about this? I need to be willing to change what I think, because I change, information changes, and sometimes, even reality changes. Look at the changing guidance around covid. Public health messaging about the pandemic has been really messy. Part—not all, certainly, but part—of the issue is that people aren’t used to authority saying “ignore what I told you yesterday, listen to me today.” And authority can be, has been, bad at telling people, “here’s what I know now, but this may change.”

I think that we would all benefit from a little less certainty. Many people who disagree with us would seem less malicious, less purposely obtuse. Disagreement feels less threatening when your worldview can accommodate changes. It’s okay to be wrong. It’s okay to change your mind.

Also try not to be a dick about it. That’s the real core of my worldview. And that’s hard, too.

Doing what feels write

“I am a writer”. An article I read about writing points out that it’s pretty hard to become a writer without having said or written this sentence at some point, and encourages new writers to start by writing it and building from there. (In fact, that’s how I started this post.)

But why am I a writer? What is it that motivates me to record my thoughts, and publish them? I think it’s my desire to share myself with others. While I enjoy being on my own at times, I don’t like being lonely. If I can tell other people what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, then I don’t feel unseen. I feel like I’m cared for. And I feel safer, because it’s less likely that others will misunderstand my actions and words as insensitive or unkind.

Sharing myself with others is something I’m driven to do. I’m quite talkative, and I’m entirely capable of talking your ear off. I’ve gotten better about it; I can be rather perceptive, and I try to check often with my listeners to make sure I’m not taking more than my share of time. And I think people usually enjoy talking with me. But still the opportunities to share are dwarfed by what I have to share.

Blogging feels different. I don’t feel like I’m keeping you captive because you’re afraid to insult me by walking away mid-conversation. You are welcome here, but I don’t want to trap you here. I don’t want to draw you in with

I really don’t. But I do yearn to be heard.

It’s more likely that I’ll stay small, I think. There are so many people out there competing for attention, there’s so much content to consume. I certainly can’t assume that many people will be drawn to my ideas, or that they’ll stick around. And I do want them to. Despite my belief that fame, success, and wealth are probably bad for you, I still seem to want these things.

So I’ll write

If you are reading this, thank you! I appreciate you. It’s an amorphous, uncertain appreciation. I don’t know who’s going to read this, or when. Perhaps I’ll get traction somewhere, somewhen, somehow, and people will flock to this and other posts. If it happens, perhaps by then I will no longer be quite the same person I am now, the one writing this.

For you who are reading this (hi Mom! for one) what does that feel like, for you and for me? What is it like, to have an audience spread out across time? What is it like, to be a part of that audience? We are connected through this medium by tenuous strands, you with me, you with each other. If you pluck the strands of my web, will I feel it? If you fell a tree in the forest of my imagination, will I hear it? And if I don’t, is that tree even a part of my reality?

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