I promised myself that this week would be lighter fare after ranting about this, that, and the other over the past few weeks—and it will at least end with something lighter—but the initial plan was derailed when I was reminded of something I meant to write about a while ago.

I was skateboarding with Arche today (because I don't have a ton of energy to go for a mountain adventure) and a woman I passed jokingly said, "that's cheating." My response was, "work smart, not hard, right?"

I realized though: this "smart work" isn't an option for everyone. (That’s what I wanted to write about.)

For one, I was riding a $300 skateboard. Not everyone can afford that.
Two, I learned how to skateboard when I was a kid, and all my hobbies were encouraged.
Three: I taught Arche when he was nine weeks old that skateboards won’t hurt him.
Four: I live in a place where it was safe to teach Arche to run alongside me.

I can work smart here with Arche, because of a few things that were already in my favour.

In this sense: working smart is a privilege.

It's not a huge privilege—it wouldn't be hard for someone else to overcome—but as it stands: I can tire out my dog quicker than most people based on skills and tools I picked up ages ago.

That's privilege—as it often is when we tell people to "work smart." "Work smart" means use tools, resources, education, skills, etc. to create more value in less time. But even if I "work smart" by using Microsoft Excel macros other people don't know exist, that's still a privilege. I had a computer in my room when I was eight years old. (It didn't have internet, but it had Microsoft Office!) My grade eight class got MacBook’s for a month and we learned how to edit videos and make websites. My high school had half-a-dozen computer labs specializing in different programs.

No shit I know how to "work smarter" than a lot of people. That's a privilege.

People will talk about "smarter" ways to make money by putting your savings to work. But you need to have savings for that to work, and things have to go really right for you to afford setting aside thousands of dollars every year. You need a good job (but you can't have much student debt). You need access to affordable housing and transportation. You need a clean bill of health or a great benefits plan. You probably can't have kids

That's all privilege.

Here's the thing: privilege is fine! For some reason, there's a narrative out there that you need to apologize for what you have.

Who said that?

You don't need to feel guilty if you grew up in the suburbs and went to university. You don't need to make amends for your parents helping you with your tuition.

Privilege isn't a bad word. It's just something to be aware of—something to increase the empathy you have towards those who have less.

I, for example, should pause a bit before judging someone whose dog is a little hyper due to inactivity.

It's easy for me to say, "just tire them out, like I do," but then I remember: "right, not everyone can get their pup to sprint for 3km in under ten minutes."

Not everyone can set money aside.
Not everyone can get a better job.
Not everyone can eat clean.
Not everyone can “work smart.”

If I really wanted to fix the dog-issue, I could offer up my time to train people and their pups on how to skateboard. I'm probably not going to do it—I'm pretty sure it would take a year for anyone to feel comfortable doing what I do—but the least I can do is reserve judgement on someone who might not have it as easy as I do.

Or, in other words: don't just call poor people lazy. I think that's my point.

OK bit of fun:

Science fiction is my favourite genre, and here's why: it's bigger.

Most stories we read/watch/listen to ask the question, "what if?"

What if an overly-serious man gets a dog?
What if a widow's mid-life crises takes her to Nepal?
What if the underdogs won?

That's the general basis of fiction. What if this thing, that's never actually happened in the real world, were to happen? What then?

Sci-Fi gets to ask bigger questions. For me, that's just more fun.

What if the laws of physics changed?
What if robots outsmarted us?
What if we colonized the stars?

All the other questions that spill out of those starting points are such insane thought experiments.

What would trade look like in an interplanetary society? How would everyone be governed? With that much tech, what do weapons look like? How has religion changed?

There is absolutely something to be said for the granular questions you can ask about smaller-scale stories—getting into the weeds a characters' emotions and nuanced reactions to everyday situations.

I can do maybe one or two of those a year, though. I can do sci-fi all day.

With sci-fi, it's like my brain gets stretched more and more based on the size of the questions. Considering the possibilities of wild things—and really exploring the implications of them—is just a fun mental exercise.

I think it can have radical effects, too. Ask "what if aliens existed" enough times and (at least to me) the question, "what if a god existed" doesn't seem so crazy.

(Maybe that is just me though… I'm pretty sure sci-fi is largely an atheist's pursuit.)

But because of my sci-fi experience, I'm more...trained to think about god(s) and the possibilities beyond the material world we see. I read about "philotic twining" between all living things and think, "what if we are all somehow connected?" I read about a space of pure potential that exists beyond our universe and think, "what if ideas and inspiration do come from somewhere else?"

I'm less cynical in my real life, and I largely credit the extensive library of sci-fi silliness I've absorbed. I've spent thousands of hours immersed in worlds where anything is possible. I've trained myself to wonder it throughout the rest of my life.

Ooh and can I add another twist? I'm a big fan of horror storytelling as well. I'm not a massive fan of horror itself (I still lose sleep over the wrong movie), but the stories: love it. And only for one reason: in horror, anything can happen.

Across every genre (and especially in sci-fi and fantasy), there are archetypes and predictable narratives. Most of the time, the good guys win. They may lose for a bit in the middle—it may even seem really dark for an entire book like in Game of Thrones—but in the end, they win.

In horror, there are no guarantees. Literally anything can happen. The protagonist can die, get possessed, kill their partner, doom the world—whatever. The good guys often lose, and it's great. It's so refreshing. I like knowing that's possible, because in real life: we don't have plot armour. Anything can happen. It's chaos out here. And there's beauty in the unexpected. It's exhilarating to have no idea how it'll all end. It's scary, but hey: a bit of adrenaline never killed anyone. (Or maybe it did...kind of speaking out of turn here.)

OK that's enough for today. If I kept going any longer, I would miss the Sunday deadline which, as you must surely know, are incredibly important to me.

Until next time: