Last night, I worked my first block of time for Grubhub. I was scared out of my wits that I'd mess something up, but the first three deliveries went fine.
The fourth . . . oh, boy.
The recipient, whom I'll call George, lives in a very confusingly numbered apartment/condo complex. It seems that the individual units have garages attached to the back, so that's where the GPS took me. My instructions, however, were to leave the food at George's front door, which I couldn't see. And there was no place to park by the garages. I had to drive elsewhere to park and then find the right place on foot. This involved walking all over that part of the complex, being led in the opposite direction of where I was really supposed to go (thanks a lot, GPS), trying not to slip on a ridiculous amount of ice, calling/receiving calls from an increasingly bewildered George, and attempting to read unit numbers in the dark with a dying phone and an emergency flashlight that had apparently run down its stored power and would only light up as long as I was cranking its hand generator.
😖
I finally found the place, but I can't imagine George will leave me a good review (if he has that ability). He claimed Grubhub drivers had never had trouble finding him before. I have to wonder if they were delivering in the dark with an untrustworthy GPS.
What a first night. Only me, right? 😝
Sometimes we fall into a similar trap when writing nonfiction. We assume that because we/others have successfully completed a given/proposed task without complications, others should be able to do the same. We see this attitude, for example, in this oft-repeated argument:
"I worked summers and paid my way through college. Millennials/Gen Z are just lazy and want everything for free."
But, as with the infamous geometry teacher at my high school who'd been teaching for so long that he'd forget his students didn't know how to do certain things, this approach can lead us to make incorrect assumptions. Our own experiences and circumstances can create blind spots we're not even aware of and lead us to unconsciously omit important steps, key exceptions, or potential complications.
While this Pinterest post is a few years old and a bit exaggerated, I think it does a good job of illustrating some of the blind spots in the "I worked . . . lazy" argument:
While I had scholarships, part-time work, and a college-savings program to help me graduate without debt, I'm very much the exception among college graduates. And even without the pressure of student loans hanging over my head, I've still had to deal with the difficulties in the last part of that post. I've repeatedly found myself in the position of not having enough experience to get a job in my field but being unable to get more experience because no one would hire me without it! Friends of mine have had the same struggle. It's maddening, and it doesn't help when people who don't understand act as if we're the problem.
Remember, a huge part of writing nonfiction is connecting to our audience. That's why it's critical for us to make sure we look at and understand all sides of our topic, whether or not we agree with all of them. If our audience feels misunderstood or talked down to, we'll lose them. But if we can show that we "get" where they're coming from and empathize with their struggles, they're much more likely to listen to what we have to say.
If you're having trouble finding the blind spots in your own work, another person makes a great sounding board. Click here to schedule a time to talk with me about your project so we can figure out what's missing.
Write on,
Candice
(Photo: Michał Parzuchowski, Unsplash)
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