Last night I slept for about twelve hours. Between not sleeping much the night before, being in a damn car accident yesterday, and taking a handful of drugs, something must have made me tired. For the most part, I’m not in pain. However, the front of my neck is extremely tender, tight. It’s funny how you take your body for granted when it works. Sitting up is fine, but whenever I lie down, sit up, or roll over on my side, I have to use my hands to support my big-ole head. Apparently that’s the protocol when your neck has been cracked like a whip. Ba-chow!

I spent most of the afternoon reading A Study in Scarlett, which is the first of the Sherlock Holmes novels, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’ve never read any Sherlock Holmes stories before (don’t judge me), but I discovered that I could buy the complete works on Amazon for my Kindle for 99 cents, so I did. From what I can tell, most of the stories are told from the perspective of Dr. Watson, and that was the case (detective word!) for the first section of the book I read today. However, the second section went back in time and was told from a different, unknown narrator. The third section was told by Dr. Watson, although most of it was in the voice of a different character because he was being quoted verbatim.

This evening my parents and I listened to the last two episodes of the S-Town Podcast, something we started several weeks ago. First, if you haven’t listened to it, I think you should. This was my second time through, and it was just as wonderful as the first time. It tells the true story of John, a genius clock repairman from a place in Alabama that he refers to as Shit Town. John’s concerned that a murder has been covered up by small-town politics, but as the tale progresses, the focus becomes more and more about John. By the end of the show, several of John’s friends have been interviewed, each shining light on different parts of his personality and life.

(The above picture is me listening to the podcast with a microwaveable rice bag on my sore neck. Personally, I don’t think floral patterns are my best look, but we only have one rice bag and–clearly–it has flowers on it.)

For obvious reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about stories. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about the perspective from which stories are told. Today when I started the Sherlock Holmes book, I assumed the entire thing would be told from Dr. Watson’s viewpoint, since that’s how it started out. But then–wham!–section two was someone different talking, someone unidentified. As a writer and a reader, I’m not usually crazy about this way of doing things, since the voice I hear first is the one I most identify with, get used to, and root for. But one of my takeaways from today is that there’s always more than one perspective. Regarding the Sherlock Holmes novel, there’s no way Dr. Watson could have known in detail what happened twenty years ago, so someone else had to step in to fill in the blanks. In the podcast, many people had to be interviewed in order to get a more complete picture of John, a picture that wouldn’t fully come into focus if he were the only one talking.

I’ve heard it said that everyone is the main character in their own movie. Like I’m my main character–the star of the show–and everyone else is a supporting actor or actress, maybe just a stand-in or an extra. (Sorry.) But that’s true for all of us. You’re the main character in your story, and I play some other role–maybe your son, your friend, your dance instructor, or simply a total stranger whose blog you read.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of this, but since I’m my main character, it’s extremely easy to forget that there are other valid and helpful perspectives other than my own. I’m not always right. (This is not a quote to be used against me later.) I’m sure this idea could be applied to a lot of things, such as–I’m not always right about dancing. But the thing that I’ve applied it to today is–I’m not always right–about myself.

Honestly, I have a handful of insecurities I deal with almost daily, most of which have to do with my physical body, my talents and abilities, and my finances. (Is there anything else?) On each of these topics, there’s a narrator in my head telling a story that basically boils down to, “You’re not enough” or “Life would be better if you were different.”

This is one area in which having a therapist has been extremely helpful for me. I like having a professional someone who’s not involved in the day-to-day details of my life weigh in on everything. Having another person’s perspective, having someone else tell their story about me, has helped balance out the thoughts I think about myself. Marcus, you have many talents. Marcus, you have a lot to offer someone. Marcus, you’re full of shit sometimes.

I could probably spend the rest of my life trying to remember that my opinion–about anything, but especially myself–is not the final word. After all, I’m pretty identified with, pretty used to that voice in my head. Even when it’s not kind to me, I still seem to root for it, assume that it’s right because it belongs to me. But the truth is that one character’s voice makes for a rather one-side story. If all the world’s a stage, all of our voices need to be heard. And if another’s perspective, another’s story about you is kinder than the one you’re telling yourself, surely that’s a story worth listening to.