I have been reflecting a lot lately on, well, everything. One of the concepts I have really struggled with is the idea that you can create a certain portion of your own reality. You have heard the adage "Dress for the job, you want not the job you have?" Well, at 45 years old I think there is some deep wisdom to that.
After a lifetime of being a low flying, self-effacing, humble soldier in the blue collar world I am from, I can see where my slacker chic has informed my status. I'm not a great salesman, and even worse at self promotion. Its a defense mechanism for most of us - the ability to point out our shortcomings before others have the chance to devastate us with critique. In fact, a lot of us may have invented weaknesses in order to deflect that same criticism.
Anyway, I have started to wonder if about every shortcoming in my life is in some way related to how I was "dressed." My attitude, my screen printed T shirts, by choice of hobbies... all of these things painted a picture that became Carl. The harsh truth is very few people will spend an ounce of energy to dig through the facade and discover who Carl really is.
Working on putting a better image forward. More professional, more confident, and as honest as always but with a little more reserve. More on this as the situation develops.
One of the frequent frustrations I have with tabletop gaming is how min/maxy and rules-strict they tend to be, especially for a hobby that is ultimately mostly random. I can trace a direct line from my love of D&D and subsequent RPGs to where the flame died. It didn't have as much to do with the discovery of the opposite sex as it did the increase of crunch and death of narrative.
As a writer, I want to be part of a story (or tell a story, as a DM). I expect this as a core requirement in all my gaming, be it video games or skirmish style miniature games. This is why I think Fortnite, despite being just another FPS, snagged me. The world tells a narrative, even though the game itself is a bunch of kids hopping and shooting.
I mention Skirmish gaming because its something I enjoy. Strike that, its something I enjoy imagining the ideal version of. Every several years I get sucked into Warhammer and get caught up in the fluff only to find the same dead-ends waiting. One, the cost. Two, the planned obsolescence. And three, and most pertinent to this post, the lack of narrative in some games. Rolling fistfuls of d6 determined most closely to the amount of dollars spent was a narrative I do not enjoy in my hobby life. I'm already keenly aware of the dagger of socio-economics, thank you.
I have broken my vow and given game design another crack. I am at a spot where I am between novels. I have one at a publisher, one rough draft finished and ready for revision, and a third started. It was as good of time as any to try this ttrpg thing once more. I have decided to design a skirmish game, one with a world I can write stories in as well as share as a sandbox with any willing gamer. The core of the game will be based on the ability to tell a story, both in the theater of the mind as well as with the components on the table. Best of all, you can use about anything you care to for miniatures and terrain - limited only by your imagination.
I will be writing more about this project in the time to come.
I am currently hoping to resurrect this blog, as well as my writing career. COVID-19 happened fast and it murdered a lot of my momentum and motivation. I'm in the rebuilding phase now, so I need to get back out there and build my presence from scratch. So watch this space, I will be posting much more often than I have been.
Perhaps you thought I forgot that this was supposed to be a page about my writing career? Well, I did, sort of.
The truth is somewhat closer to the fact I wanted to work on my writing rather than talk about it. I have been rather productive and am excited about the projects underway. Let's take a moment to visit what is coming up for the near future.
The book formerly referred to as "The Vampire Novel" has been finished and submitted to a publisher. It is in production currently and I will keep you abreast of key milestones in its progress as I am made aware of them. I am pushing for the title "Birth of the Rat."
The next novel I will release is nearing completion of its first full draft. It is a weird western fantasy and I am pretty happy with how it is turning out. I think it has a lot of heart and has a much more humorous approach than my previous releases.
Lastly, I continue to work on the "Untitled" tabletop game. From the ashes of Play Your Own Adventure I hope to build a tabletop skirmish game that is rewarding for solo players, competitive players, and cooperative players alike. I want it to be narrative by nature and offer persistent characters so you can play the story of your own design. Mostly, I want its rules to to provide easy fun (something so many systems forget to bake in when it comes to miniature centered games).
If you are interested in any of the projects, watch this space or my Twitter account @carlsmithwriter
I think about kids’ shoes a lot.
Shoes were a stressful part of life as a kid. For a middle class family shoes can be an oppressive expense. Kids feet grow every time they sneeze and they are sometimes by default harder on shoes than the most severe Consumer Reports lab tech.
My parents always bought us PayLess shoes. They did this because of the price, and I think because of the illusion of value through effective marketing. I was always happy to have new shoes. It was super cool to get to pick out a new pair. I could swallow wearing the hand me downs the neighborhood moms gave us (my own friend’s cast off clothing!), but something about shoes were more personal. Used shoes weren’t even an option. I’d wear the toeless size 8’s until they were shreds rather than wear someone else’s shoes.
It was an absolute thrill to wear a new pair of shoes, and I often asked to wear them immediately. This was both because I felt so proud to own something new, and also because the shoes I wore into the shoe store were invariably destroyed. PayLess shoes had a knack for coming apart. My big toe would wear a hole through the top and the sole would come unglued at either end and would flop about as I walked.
I can recall being made fun of for my shoes on several occasions, and a lot deeper into my teens than I’d like to admit. Sometimes when new shoes were not in the cards, my dad would use some sort of contact cement and glue the soles back on to the foam. It never held long and even when it did there were bits that still caught and flapped about from the uneven spreading of adhesive.
Sometimes when I was either annoyed, impeded (PE was a hoot with these floppy soles), or needed to preemptively strike before bullying, I would tear away the flapping part. Invariably all this achieved was an uneven gait, pulling away more sole, a smaller flap, a more disheveled look, and more chance for water to seep through. It was miserable and this scene played out multiple times in my childhood.
It was for this reason I used to be in favor of school uniforms. The topic came up a few times in the 80s, I am not sure why as public school in Council Bluffs, Iowa is hardly the place for it. Once I remember the teacher saying it was being considered because of gangs, and left it at that. But I was for it. I remember thinking if we were all forced to wear the same thing it would be one less thing for kids to bully me about. We’d all look the same, at least as far as shirt and pants go. It never passed.
My one clothing triumph ever were my Spuds MacKenzie t shirts, purchased at Foodland grocery store out of a shopping cart (the shirts just unceremoniously dumped within, a precursor to the WalMart DVD troughs). I wore one to Wilson Junior High one day and immediately was sent to the office and asked to wear it inside out the rest of the day, and to never wear it again. My dad could not understand why. I now had two perfectly good, new shirts that I couldn’t wear to school. It was back to the ragged Star Wars shirt that showed my belly button, or any number of pocket tees. My mom took mercy on me and bought me a Hobie shirt (no way she’d splurge for TC Surf Design ot Santa Cruz), so I wore it three days a week.
At some point around my double-digits I started to ask for brand shoes. Not incessantly, but persistently. The answer was no, of course. I remember when I got to junior high school my mom bought me a pair of Adidas, just like ones Run DMC wore in the Christmas in Hollis video, only just a couple years too late to be super cool (and of course I both laced mine to the top with narrow laces and tied them, ending any chance at hip hop cred). I felt like the king of the world.
Later in high school when I went out for track, I told my mom I needed running shoes. I knew not to ask dad. She let me get some Saucony from the 1/2 Price Store. They were wack but I loved them. I wore Saucony running shoes as my daily shoe, gym shoe, track practice shoe, and meet shoe. My coaches continually hinted I needed spikes. I didn;t know what they were until I saw other guys’ kits. I looked in the East Bay catalog and saw the prices. No way in the world I’d ever have those.
By a stroke of luck we found a pair on clearance late in my sophomore season. Instantly improved my 400 time (ran it around 58 sec). With those cleats, and the awareness that you should train off-season, I’m convinced I could have been something at track (I have a theory that key moments in my life would have been drastically different if for one solid mentor… everything from track to college to career. I was a directionless kid).
My junior year I bought a pair of clearance Nike with my own money, my first pair of Nike ever. They were black and hot pink, and they were indoor track shoes. They were super light and had zero support and the thinnest sole. I wore them as my regular shoe and track show, rain or shine, indoor or out. I literally wore through them. In fact, I wore them to Mexico and stepped on a nail, which had no trouble slipping through the millimeter thick rubber to pierce my foot. I got a sweet tetanus shot at the campsite from our group’s nurse.
So fast forward to last week. My kids have never wanted for shoes. My wife is an insanely great shopper and they have had nice, new, brand name, cool shoes on their feet since birth. My daughter and I have a tradition that every year for her birthday I take her shoe shopping and we splurge on a pair of cool, non-sale shoes (usually at Journeys). My son, now that he is 11, is getting picky. He asked for all white Nike. They are awesome, but white. And he’s as tough on shoes as any 11 year old boy.
The first day he had them he put them on with his new white socks (I splurged for matching Nike socks) and he was obviously proud. Was heading out the door to go scare up the older boys in the neighborhood, no doubt hoping to show them off. I never felt so good as a dad. Maybe that is an exaggeration.
But shoes are important.
One of the constant battles I see being waged online is (sadly) over race relations. The former majority, now finding its way or trying to, has taken it upon themselves to be quite militant in their calling-out of peers and institutions over matters of race.
It can be a little cringeworthy at times, but I do prefer it to the alternative. Case in point, this week media darling Jimmy Fallon was called out for wearing blackface in a SNL sketch where he portrayed Chris Rock. The incident was over a decade ago, but the reaction to it is hot.
Blackface has puzzlingly been a topic du jour for a few years now. The first time I personally remember there being backlash to it was when Ted Danson attended an event in blackface on the arm of Whoppi Goldberg. And, if my memory serves me correctly, that was pre-internet. At any rate it was pre social media.
There has been no shortage of blackface scandal since. Photos from private parties, comedy skits, movies… the list involves big names who should, at some base level, at least be aware of how the press works and try to take a safer course in their behavior.
Blackface’s origins, which I understand are tied to minstrel shows, represent a negation of a culture. White folks would like to pay to experience an entertaining display of black culture, even if steeply flawed and poisoned by stereotypes, so long as its performed by white folks. They made an entire culture the clown: a characterization they had no agency in guiding, gained no benefit from, and suffered from the negative propagation of misconceptions. Blackface, in that form at least, is a bigoted endeavor.
So what about actors having some fun? Fred Armisen playing Obama, because he allegedly had the best sense of the impression? Or Robert Downey Junior playing an actor playing a black soldier in a mockery of Hollywood hubris? Or, in this case, Jimmy Fallon?
The topic boils down to two other hot concepts: white washing and cultural appropriation. The former is when Hollywood employs the same logic used in minstrel shows - we know actor X.Y. will sell tickets and while the part was written for a person of color/culture, we will use them. It is the substitution for all colors with white proxies. The latter is when the experiences and beliefs, even the lives, of a culture are mined for use without their benefit, permission, or technical supervision.
I have to ask myself - does Jimmy Fallon portraying Chris Rock fulfil any of these highly negative goals, or is it just crude humor? Comedy is difficult. We want it to shock and ratle taboos but it has a great power to harm and offend. Some of the worse bullying is defended with “it was only a joke.”
This inner debate extends to matters outside of late night talk show hosts as well. For our book club, we have started reading Lovecraft Country. It is a wonderful book by Matt Ruff. It takes the racism inherent in the works of HP Lovecraft, pulp/weird fiction, and America and turns it into an allegorical adventure tale. The book pulls no punches with its account of racism in America. Unlike other works, I do not get the feeling that the negative energy and violence directed at the black characters is secretly some sort of wish fulfillment by the author - hiding behind the art to exorcize some terrible character flaws. But there is a question that lingers, because Matt Ruff is a white male. In 21st Century America, is it bad form for a white male to speak for the black experience in this way? I do not have an answer for this.
When I put my feelers out into the world wide web for viewpoints, I quickly regret it. The loudest and strongest detractors seem to be, on surface, folks of privilege no different than me. Then there are folks of color who agree that it is, in one degree or other, offensive. Then there are the folks that say there are bigger problems to face. Then there are folks who say they aren’t offended. And then come the next loudest group, white folks staunchly and categorically defending their team.
It makes it uncomfortable for me if I dwell on it too long. Are my own opinions wrong? If the offended party cannot come to quorum on this, how can I have any sort of final answer? Am I allowed to write black stories and/or black characters? What steps should I be taking to make sure I do it right? Is it any different than writing females? Gays?
I was recently made aware of editing services that will review your text and dialogue specifically for matters of discriminatory material, intended or otherwise - from descriptions, to portrayals, to dialog. It seems like a very useful tool, if not another delay and expense for a guy like me. However, the cynic in me couldn’t help smirk that most of the services I found in my initial research were in fact other privileged American whites.
I am not here to ask if blackface is essentially awful or just tacky, nor do I propose an answer to whether a white author can present and by its merits personally benefit from a story about black characters and black experiences. I just wanted to reflect that these questions are still debates that rage in daily life here in American in 2020. If you have an opinion on this, and can offer it in a level-headed and respectful manner, I should like to hear it.
Above all else, let’s just love others as we would ourselves, or perhaps even better. Sometimes the way we do this is by pausing to look at the world from another angle, and ask ourselves if something that is comfortable and accepted isn’t also hurtful. And just like with all good science, use the new data to change our actions. Ask, test, review, change, repeat.
I knew the timing of the cough was going to be trouble.
The world around me had started to close down, at first at the bidding of rumors and assumptions followed by sudden, universal mandates. Businesses sent office workers home with laptops, and in a case of “as above, so below” the schools followed suit with our nation’s youth. Everyone was hungry for information, wrought with uncertainty, and forming the personal opinions that would guide their online interactions for the weeks to follow. Most of all, we were learning that COVID-19 was responsible for the most non-specific symptoms of any virus we’ve encountered. What we did know is that respiratory symptoms were likely and to be suspicious of such.
The last thing anyone wanted was to hear a guy coughing.
I can’t say I fully know what caused the cough, I am assuming some low threat virus or bacteria, maybe a bit of an allergic reaction. We are in Iowa at springtime after all, and my immune system isn’t getting any younger.
The cough was dry and was not accompanied by any sort of secretion or fever. I could feel the specific site of the insult - a tracheal region below my chin and higher than my sternum. I’ve had coughs like these before. They nag. They linger. They flare at inconvenient times and contrary to my prescriber's belief do not respond to benzonatate. And, to the disappointment of the part of me that just wants a diagnosis, I am otherwise fine.
On the last Wednesday of April I made an appointment with my PCP for a check up. He took x-rays during the visit, but no COVID test. He knows my history of any bug I catch eventually settling in my chest, so he was wanting to get a good listen and look. My lungs were clear, and other than my blood pressure and weight being up, I was otherwise grossly healthy. I was given a 2 week sample of an inhaled corticosteroid, Rxs for a methylprednisolone taper pack and benzonatate, and directions to add loratadine or fexofenadine to my daily mix. I was told to hold off on the methylprednisolone and only start it if symptoms didn’t lessen by the weekend.
Fast forward to May 4th, Star Wars day for some, another manic Monday in the world of healthcare. My cough had conspired to be at its worst during my evening shift, and my voice was also failing me. It had been declining in strength since my visit to the doctor, but I talk for a living as well as for recreation so it hadn’t exactly had much chance to rest. After giving my body and the medicine the weekend to improve, I started the methylprednisolone but there was no immediate impact.
Midway through my shift my manager and I made the decision that given the symptoms I was presenting to our work environment, the policies in place, and the example mandated to be set by the Poison Control Center (and all Public Health agencies) that I should be tested and cleared before returning to work.
The next morning I called Employee Health, as the health system that employs me is doing in-house COVID-19 testing. Aside from some frustration with the phone prompts (one sends you to a dead-end voicemail that appears to be misrouted), I soon spoke with a receptionist that was able to transfer me to staff responsible for coordination of testing. They reviewed available times in their schedule and gave me explicit directions for where to go and how to proceed.
The health system had an acute screening site established on the University campus. I was told that there would be a specific path to follow from either east or west ends of the campus, and that they would converge on Lot M, behind the University library. I was told to bring my badge, to leave my windows up until instructed otherwise, and to expect 24 to 48 hours for results. I was to expect a phone call with the results, then an email would be sent to my work email address for the benefit of my department. They needed my name, date of birth, department, and color and make of my vehicle. My appointment would be at 1:15.
I left a little early to make sure I could navigate the University campus in time, assuming I would have spare time to sit and read in peace. The day was sunny but dreadfully windy, and it was appropriately chilly for spring. I was expecting a M*A*S*H style tent in the middle of a parking lot flanked by rows of coughing people in cars.
After a slow orbit of the campus I found the general area of the test, but I will admit I was confused on where to go. I could see folks in PPE waving cars into a parking garage, but there were cones and sawhorse stop signs telling me not to go that direction. It was then that I noticed the first security guard.
The gentleman was part of campus security. Since I lingered too long at the intersection he exited his truck and walked over to me, mask in place. He pointed to a parking lot that I was to head to next. It was a large lot to the west that was filled with long lanes of cones, not unlike you’d see outside of a concert or baseball game that expected large capacity. In fact, it brought to mind cattle chutes, which may have been a side effect of me reading a Louis L'amour novel. There were only a couple cars driving through the lanes, which could have accommodated several dozen cars. For me there would be no such waiting.
There was another round of security, this time a member of the police department. The officer was parked near a pair of long wooden tables. I was approached by a man and woman in PPE who sought to confirm my appointment. The wind whipped across the lot and was brutalizing the pair, who showed no change in demeanor as they professionally carried out their duties.
I, however, was not on the guest list.
Rather than be turned away, they assumed I was a late addition. They stepped away from my car and started coordinating with others via walkie talkie. A car that was ahead of me was waved forward by another staff member in scrubs, and another security vehicle was parked nearby. I do not recall if it was police or campus. The car that had entered previous to me was being flagged to the middle of a lane. A car pulled in behind me but was stalled a good car length behind. One of the pair stepped towards that car to give instruction.
They returned and had verified my vehicle, name, and department as a late addition. I had cracked my window to communicate better, and reached to raise it again. Being me, I of course failed at the most basic task and pushed the lever the wrong direction. The auto lower mode engaged and the man stood back and calmly said, “Yeah, go ahead and raise that back up and leave it there, thank you.”
They waved me across the large lot, where I have my pick of three wide open lanes, again noted by orange cones that by some miracle were not flying away. The wind was relentless, and the woman who flagged me forward too way somehow miraculously spared from taking flight. My vehicle rocked from the gusts.
It began to dawn on me that with the controlled schedule they were able to distance everyone, be it on foot or in car, to maximize buffer zones. I was impressed. This did not change throughout the process. I was waved forward again to exit, without stopping, and pull back out onto the road, back to the intersection that I had originally tried to enter incorrectly. The security man nodded, walkie talkie in hand, and pointed me onward. Everyone had walkie talkies.
The next lot presented more cones and a longer wait. I saw two women in scrubs, windbreakers, and masks walking towards me. I assumed they bore instructions, but it turns out they were just walking laps. They passed me several times before I departed, and it seemed like a curious area to use to get your steps in. It was probably a pair of workers on break and they were sort of married to the site, “dirtied” perhaps by the exposure and not able to leave the area.
Eventually I was waved into a parking garage, no tent to be seen. A tent may not have survived the punishing winds. There were outdoor blast heaters and patio warmers set around, but none were running. It was cold, and would have been more so in a prolonged exposure. At least outside you had the sun. At least within the garage you were free from the wind. No one looked tremendously comfortable but you would have never been able to tell by their professional manner.
A single nurse with a mask and walkie talkie was in command of the lot feeding into the garage. She walked the length of it several times to coordinate with the two yellow robed nurses within. A car was ahead of me and I wouldn’t be allowed into the garage until they were swabbed and released. HIPPA was being maintained to the fullest ability afforded.
When I was finally instructed to pull into a stall, the two nurses approached and motioned to roll down the window. They had full PPE; hair, face, mask, gown, gloves. It all had a very science fiction feel to it. My SUV sits as high as any SUV or truck, and once of the nurses was short. I inquired how best to accommodate her and she said just lean my head back against the headrest, turn towards her, and breathe normally.
Before I knew it, without much fanfare, a long probe was pointing through my window. I had heard it was a swab, and to be honest I expected a rigid Q-Tip style contraption. Instead this was a semi-floppy plastic swizzle stick with the tip covered in little plastic cilia. I wondered how they would navigate it without any rigidity. I found out exactly how no sooner than I had formed the thought.
The nurse asked me to once again confirm my name and date of birth. The swab was inserted into my nostril up to the nurse’s fingertips. It was inserted slowly, and frankly didn’t really irritate the lining of my nose as much as I feared. I could feel the spikey end of the swab bobbing against the interior of my oropharynx. I didn't care for that but it wouldn’t stay there long. I was told to continue breathing normally, and I realized I had started to hold my breath. With that the swap was retracted and drug against the lining of my sinus areas.
It tickled, but not in a funny way. It was a non-painful irritation that left a streak of hyperstimulated nerve endings in its wake. I wanted to crawl out of my skin in the moment. It was very uncomfortable, but before I could make a fool of myself it was over. A dull shadow of that sensation lingered for hours, the surface of my nose’s interior unaccustomed to visitors and not happy with the disturbance. Still, it was not abrasive. It did not scrape or hurt. It brushed. It tickled.
The probe was packaged and I was told to roll up my window and exit through the garage. I emerged in a different part of the campus, an area where no one seeing my car would know that I had been anywhere but on campus. It was very organized and very smooth.
I was called at 8:45 AM the next day with my results. I was COVID-19 negative and a letter was to be emailed to me shortly. The Employee Health nurse reviewed my symptoms with me, and shared that even with a negative result that they are asking folks to not return until they are asymptomatic. We discussed the nature of my symptoms and my prior appointment, and she agreed that I should be allowed to return, if my managers concur.
And that, as they say, was that. I immediately contacted my workplace and confirmed that I could return to action. I thought that I would type up a little but about the process since, mercifully, not many of us will experience it first hand. Not everyone will be sent to the University site. Others will be routed to stations within their clinics, or to public sites arranged by state or private labs. But the process, so long as it does not become overwhelmed, is quick and painless.
I could see them being able to ramp up productivity to impressive volume with few changes to what I experienced. Very little actual medical equipment was needed - nothing that couldn’t be performed with a card table, cooler, and a totes. It could be done anywhere. The key is to protect the process by finding that sweet spot - that magic number of where we can expose the least workers, test the most patients, and avoid overwhelming the material and human resources involved.
I imagined the same site but with the cattle chute lanes full of cars. Maybe someone pulled in the wrong way. Maybe someone honks, impatient beyond reason. Maybe someone cuts in line, has a vasovagal response, shows up without a slot, or has a car full of agitated kids they couldn’t just leave at home. Maybe there would be emesis or sneezing or SOB (or a plain old S.O.B.).
So many things could happen in this setting. It could have been miserable. By the grace of G-d, it wasn’t. And that was at least somewhat due to planning, vision, training, and execution. No one woke up April 1st an expert on COVID-19 and the management of public test sites.
Lastly, I wanted to commend the staff for their professional service in what had to be uncomfortable conditions. It could just have easily been raining, freezing, snowing, or searing heat. These nurses were out there serving both people and the public, putting themselves in a position of exposure in a low visibility, low glamour, low reward setting.
Healthcare professionals of all walks are being called to go above and beyond. It really put into perspective the orchestration, demands, and our individual roles in this time. So kudos to all of the teams orchestrating the response to the COVID-19 pandemic, and bless you for your efforts. I hope you (we) all stay encouraged, healthy, and content in knowing that we are making a tremendous difference, even when it isn’t easy or welcome.
I hesitate to even say its name, but COVID 19 has really caused a fair share of chaos. Its effects have stretched from trivial to substantial, and we haven't seen the end of it yet.
I'm reminded of those sort of events in history that affect human leisure and art. Fans of music may have read about how Ska, an indigenous Jamaican genre that mixed American R&B with high energy dancing. It peaked in the late 1950's, and was permanently changed by a massive heatwave. The dance halls were too uncomfortable for the uptempo revelry, so the music morphed into rock steady and the roots of what we eventually just call reggae.
I'm looking down the barrel of no baseball this spring and I hate it. Even as I type this the cancellations of conventions and events are rolling in. But there is an exciting aspect to this; the part where us dreamers play "what if?" What if the world has to stay indoors and away from crowds? Will board games experience a boom? Will video games experience an evolution in style and audience? Will people read again?
The prospect of book sales, book talk, and book stores all increasing while sports decrease is a little satisfying, in a fiendish way. COVID-19 is nothing to make light of, but in a way, it is a very nerd-friendly pandemic. Especially for anyone who feels even slightly introverted.
Order some books, comic, or games from your favorite independent and/or locally owned shops. If you need the name of a few, or any suggestions, hit me up!
Of course you could always buy one of MY books... available on Audible, Amazon, and Kindle as we speak...
Lake Lord Publishing
A home for the projects of Carl D. Smith - writer, dad, pharmacist, substitute teacher, Chicago Cubs & Dead Milkmen fan. Consistently clever, occasionally humorous, intermittently productive. Proud native of