On Politics 5: The Elephant in the White House

Dear President Trump,

When we talk about the Elephant in the Room, we’re describing something obvious that no one wants to talk about. And now we’ve got an Elephant in the White House who obviously wants our attention; you want us to talk about you. Forever. The literary spirit in me wants to guess at your motives– are you seeking immortality? Dodging the Reaper?– but they’re not ultimately important. Media attention has obviously benefited you politically, so it makes sense that you’d want it to continue.

And to that end you, sir, are Doing Things. So many things. Honestly, so many things that it’s hard to make sense of your goals. I really want to speculate on those goals, but one of my rules from the start is that I won’t speculate in these open letters. And I’ll offer constructive criticism. Wow. My job is hard.

So let me talk about the best way for me to do my job. First, I’m going to have to ignore the majority of what you do and focus on actions of substance that will have far reaching effects and consequences. For example, you’ve made a record-setting number of Executive Actions since you took office. However, most of them are vague or ineffectual, impossible to implement, or are simply and immediately being blocked by courts. As a constructive criticism, you should learn the basics of writing a good, enforceable, constitutional law. You should also learn about the legislative process, since you’ll need it if you want funding for anything, and should look into finding ways to work with the departments your orders affect. Without those three things implementation of your orders will be haphazard at best, and may lead to unintended consequences.

Of course, attention has its own rewards. If that’s all you want then you can ignore everything I just wrote about effective governance. It’s not relevant to your interests.

However, you haven’t stopped at Executive Actions, Orders, Proclamations and the lot. You’re also working to fill cabinet positions, and almost every individual you’ve nominated is underqualified— or at least very weirdly qualified— and controversial. And then you put Breitbart’s own Steven Bannon on the NSC after removing the Joint Chiefs of Staff.


It’s like your spamming the Senate and the American people in a sustained denial of service attack. It’s an effective strategy, in that even if you lose a couple fights (you probably won’t) you will almost certainly win the majority. The question I don’t think you’ve asked, though, is whether these fights are worth winning. Will these nominees be able to do the job? Because if they end up like W’s crony Michael “Heckuvajob” Brown then they’ll embarrass you. They might all go off like firecrackers in a string, disaster after disaster. Of course this will be a lot worse for the people who literally die in disasters, the communities that lose their livelihoods, the kids who go uneducated– you know, America– but it will also humiliate you. I’m confident at least one of those things matters to you, so I hope you’ll reconsider your current MO.

Finally, you and your proxies have created Alternative Facts! Well done, imminently meme-able! That said, all of the weird buzz around the actual size of the crowds at your nomination, the absolutely imaginary illegal voters that lost you the popular vote? I have a toddler and this… this feels like a tantrum. Like something to distract us from the more consequential/potentially illegal things you’re doing. Or maybe you’re deluded and require your staff to share your delusions– a fact worth covering, but until there’s proof not an actual fact. Maybe there’s some third base I’m not covering. Regardless, I think the media and the world at large will do well to separate the wheat from the chaff, and ignore most of your Reality Distortions. When there’s too much to cover, then you have to triage, put the most important things first.

And whether you’re actually obsessed with crowd sizes or not, they’re not actually important. Nobody dies because a crowd gets undercounted. You’re starting to annoy your own party. Probably best to let it go and, I don’t know, lead the Free World. Sorry, that was overly flippant, but it’s still my sincere advice. Get better at your job right now Mister President. We’ve barely recovered from the Financial Crisis of 2008 and without a genuine and competent leader things are going to get worse.

Also, seriously, attend an intelligence briefing every day.


Matthew Z. Wood


Philosophe Stupide

On Reading 2: Joe Hill Ain’t Dead

Soon after we met, my wife made it obvious she would like it if I got into Stephen King. I had read some King before I met her; I have read The Shining (a true masterpiece) and Doctor Sleep since. However, because I exist primarily as a wish granted by a genie from Bizarro World, instead my horror author of choice is not King but his son, Joe Hill.

Possibly son, possibly evil clone. Who can tell?

Stephen King is of course still the world’s most famous horrorist; it’s hard to find an article about Hill that doesn’t mention his heritage along with the fact that Hill initially took pains to obscure his own origins. It’s the kind of publicity that’s bound to make an author say thank you, but as sarcastically as he can without being mean. I mean, The Shining is about a very creepy father/son relationship and is dedicated to Joe Hill King, so the clues were out there, but he also didn’t tell his literary agent about his secret identity for 10 years.

The fact remains that Hill chose to omit his given last name on his books because he wanted to make his own way in the horror prose world (located through a magic portal in an abandoned carnival’s secret graveyard– I call it Horrorprosia). In a way, not wanting to use King’s famous name is a family trait. King himself invented the alternate persona of “Richard Bachman” to write under to see if he could succeed as a writer not once but twice. Shockingly, Bachman slowly gained a cult following, and while Bachman’s sales increased tenfold after King’s true identity was leaked, he was already selling books in the tens of thousands. It was a singular achievement. When King’s son dubbed himself “Joe Hill” and stepped out on his own, Hill was taking on a similar challenge. Doing so he has both proven himself as a writer and managed to dodge out of his famous father’s shadow. Another singular achievement unlocked.

I first encountered Joe Hill via his comic series Locke and Key, which drew my attention along with his familiar and resonant name. I was actually turned off by what seemed like a gratuitously bloody slasher-inspired first issue, but several years later a friend encouraged me to check out the first volume from my local library. The first volume was good, the second volume amazing. I was impressed by the sheer scope of imagination in the story, the combination of fantasy and horror that gave me the feeling the Keyhouse was a kind of corrupted Narnia, the smart-but-flawed heroes and villains, the knowledge that no one was safe and that I had no idea which side would win. The series left me ravenous, wanting more Hill. So I started checking out more books.

I’d heard about Hill’s novel NOS4A2 in a book review on NPR, and remembered I’d been surprised by the imaginative weirdness the critic was describing. I picked it up next, and damn if it wasn’t one of the creepiest and best reads I’d ever encountered. A book about a kid with super powers, sure, but such strange powers, unlike anything I’d ever encountered. And then the villain! Charles Talent Manx III and his terrible flunky The Gas Mask Man were brutal, stupid, and frighteningly dangerous men possessed of both magic and righteous self delusion– not to mention the terrifying theme park, Christmasland and the horrible elves that inhabit it.

It wasn’t just a good book. Even though I’m not steeped in King lore like some of my friends, I’d absorbed enough to recognize that NOS4A2 is also a tribute to Hill’s father’s works. Some of the references are humorously obvious– there’s a killer car (Christine), a Saint Bernard is prominently featured (Cujo). More subtly, there are things like the villain’s passing mention of the True Knot, the villainous psychic vampires that bugaboo Daniel Torrance in Doctor Sleep. Then there was the moment that tied everything together for me– the map.

The creepy distorted map of the United Inscapes of America is one of those great flourishes that stick with you. In the novel it appears on an iPad when the heroes try to trace a kidnapped child’s iPhone, but at that moment the child only exists on a road inside the mind of Charles Talent Manx III. As a result we get to see the other magical/imaginary places that exist nearby. This includes not only Hill’s own Lovecraft Keyhole (Locke and Key) and Playground of the Mind (Horns), but also the Pennywise Circus, home of the child-eating clown in It!

Hill was purposefully placing his books inside the structure of the Dark Tower.

Even though I haven’t read King’s Dark Tower series, I’d picked up enough to know that King’s books are connected by a multi-world structure known as the Dark Tower. My friend Mike had even run a role-playing campaign that borrowed and even improved on the idea, with a climax that included not only King’s Dark Tower and Crimson King but also their opposite numbers– the Ivory Tower and the Childlike Empress from Michael Ende’s Neverending Story. Mike’s “Jack Tales and Tommy Guns” game had driven King’s mythology like a stake into my psyche’s heart; I had to keep exploring.

Everyone told me that Hill’s novel Horns was the book to read next– a story about a man whose magical-realist devil horns compel people to confess their worst secrets to him, whether he wants them to or not. Being who I am, instead I picked up Hill’s short story collection, 20th Century Ghosts. That’s when I realized I was dealing with not just a skilled craftsman but a master.

The collection is full of lovably creepy stories, variations on familiar themes– B movies and Lovecraftian horror– that I’d never seen before. Even a brief essay on the ghosts of trees that reminded me of something M.R. James might have written if he’d lived an extra hundred years. It was the first story, “Best New Horror,” that really proved it to me, though. Immaculately crafted, the lengthy short story details the sad life of a horror anthology editor. Long exhausted with his work, unable to abandon it for financial reasons, he runs across a story that rekindles his love for the genre, but he can’t seem to track down the author to pay for a reprint. Pursuing the author, the editor ignores all of the warning signs and tropes he should know so well, plunges deep into the horror subculture and ends up not only jeopardizing his own existence but also finding reasons to live. It was a masterpiece, filled with incredible realist details, full of the love for and weariness with the horror genre that most fans experience– and smartly, with a skillful synopsis of the story that drives the editor’s search, a description that does the job it needs to and lives up to the hype. I would have wanted to publish that story. Not enough to get chainsaw murdered in the process, you understand, but I still would have wanted to publish that story.

It was the best new horror story I’d read in a very long time.

Heart-Shaped Box came next in my readings, a soulful ghost story about middle-aged rock star named Judas Coyne who buys a ghost on the internet. It goes badly for him, of course. For him, for his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, his dogs, his assistant… for the ghost. Helluva story, and just like “Best New Horror” it takes a semi-contemptible protagonist and redeems him through torment, reminds him that life and love are worth fighting for. This thesis repeats in Hill’s latest novel, The Fireman, where a bored young housewife proves and refines her mettle by fighting for survival– while pregnant– across an U.S. devastated by a plague of spontaneous human combustion.

Needless to say, I’m completely hooked on Hill. I still haven’t read Horns— even though somehow they got Harry Freaking Potter to play him in the movie– so I have that to look forward to.

Apologies to Danny Boy Radcliffe. I’d be tired of boy wizard jokes if I were an adult badass.

I haven’t read Hill’s previous hardcover, Tales from the Darkside either. Or NOS4A2 prequel graphic novel Wraith, or the Locke and Key prequel comics either. And while researching this article I saw that there’s another short collection titled Best New Horror.

Hill’s going to be keeping me happy for a while. If you like his dad’s stuff check him out. If you like your twisted stories with heart and soul– or if like me you didn’t think twisted stories could have much heart and soul– then check him out. If you are literate enough to read these words, check him out.

Joe Hill does not disappoint. And if you say otherwise… well, have you ever heard of a lovely little theme park called Christmasland? Lovely place, I’m sure we could arrange a visit. Soon.

On Stories 3: Coming to Town

Coming to Town

Charlie’s little blue Saturn was stuck in the snow at the bottom of a dark hill, maybe half an hour before midnight on Christmas Eve. If he’d paid a little more attention to warnings from the locals, he would have stashed a carton of kitty litter in the trunk, for traction. It had slipped his mind, and he’d actively ignored what Beth and everyone else said about going out on Christmas Eve as well. Now a solid wall of snow was built up under his front axle, zero bars on his phone, there were no streetlights or porchlights in sight. He was stuck on the outskirts of a small town, a hefty sack of gifts in his passenger seat, a Google maps printout of the homes of the kids in his school in his pocket, a red Santa suit and cap hanging unevenly on his boney frame. At least, Charlie thought ruefully, both the suit and the beard were warm.

Dark Mountain was not abandoned, but to new elementary ed teacher Charlie Krawl it felt like it. He’d come to the rural town as a Teaching Fellow, part of his payment for what had seemed like a free ticket through college but now he was stuck there for 4 years. He’d been assigned there according to need, not choice, and after growing up in Charlotte the little mountain community felt monolithic, isolated and isolating. There was an unpleasant quiet hanging over the town, and the streets were empty before dark even in the winter. Especially outside of town and especially in the winter. Not even the corner bar and grill had its lights on that Christmas Eve.

Charlie was an outsider, and the community made sure he knew it. The only male teacher at the local elementary school, his fellow educators made Charlie feel at best like an exotic species of lizard, at worst like a known sex offender, sometimes like a cross between the two. Charlie’s kindness towards quieter children and tendency to involve himself in conflicts with bullies was not encouraged by the administration. He had friends in town, certainly– older couples and widows seemed to appreciate the value of a young man in their midst, the few girls his age not so much. The Powers that Be, though– school board, school administrators, county commissioners, town council– regarded the lanky bespectacled stranger with skepticism or veiled hostility. Charlie knew the paper mill had up and moved away about 30, 40 years earlier and taken the best jobs with it. The town had never bounced back, and to Charlie it felt like the prevailing attitude was angry resignation. “Let this place die,” those glowering faces seemed to growl, “we are better off forgotten.”

Several thousand people still lived in Dark Mountain, though, with unnumbered families scattered throughout the hills. Where there are people, there are children. Some made it to school daily; others arrived sporadically with dirty faces and empty bellies more often than not. Charlie thought the children deserved more joy than customarily resided within Dark Mountain’s borders. Still, he managed to keep his mouth largely shut right up until he entered his first Christmas season in town. He expected decorations to pop up relentlessly in every store and on every street corner the day after Thanksgiving. It was almost a relief when they didn’t– Charlie had spent too many holiday seasons stuffed to the gills with Christmas carols and yuletide cheer. Soon, though, Charlie noticed that no Christmas lights were forthcoming, no pumpkin spice ridiculousness appeared on the local menus, nary an elf on any a shelf in local stores. The winter seemed colder without them, alien. Charlie had to ask.

Beth Graves was a fellow teacher– 4th grade– not quite a kindred spirit, but friendly and welcoming. Her kind round face unironically sported cat’s eye glasses and while she covered her round self in pumpkin-and-spook sweaters in late October, her wardrobe had seemed oddly somber since late November. Like the rest of the town, the colors red and green had vanished from her closet in the last month or so. Still, her kind brown eyes darted up at him with amiable intelligence when he walked into the teacher’s lounge. “Fresh pot of coffee if you’re in the mood, hon,” she’d smiled up at him, her eyes crinkling happily at his company but offering no words. Beth seemed to like the quiet. Charlie had smiled back and poured himself a cup of the weak black stuff the school provided its teachers. The room always smelled of cigarettes, which Charlie had hated at first– he had allergies– but after six months the stench brought a little bit of homey comfort with it. He sat across from Beth, who was grading worksheets with a cartoon Ben Franklin flying a kite on the front; she brandished a peppermint-pink pen as she corrected the tiny essays in front of her. Charles carefully cleared his throat– an experimental sound, like a neglected car engine trying to turn over. Beth looked up at him in mild surprise.

“Something on your mind, Charles?”

“Always,” he replied with a grin, “but I don’t like people to know it.”

“Mmm,” she nodded and sipped at her coffee, “Questions do set some folks off. Still, we’ve got the room, and I promise not to embarrass you too much. What’s up?”

“There’s… no Christmas around here. No trees, no carols, no lights.”

Beth nodded carefully, her eyes fixed on his and let him continue.

“Well, I mean it would be nice to do something. For the kids. Like give out some gifts or play Santa.”

Beth made a popping noise with her tongue before taking a long slurping sip of coffee out of a mug that read “Feed the poor. Buy a teacher dinner.” When she answered him it was after a long pause, most of which was spent staring at Charlie’s feet.

“That wouldn’t go over well, Charles.”

“Why not? It’s about giving and fun and love, doesn’t have to be religious. I mean, it doesn’t feel natural, a year without Christmas.”

Beth chuckled grimly and regarded Charlie with a sideways smile. “Some folks would give you a lecture about troublemakers not minding their own business, but that wouldn’t deter you, would it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Still, you’ve got to understand this is a touchy subject. I… can’t give the answer I’d like to give, Charles. But I’ll try.”

Charlie hadn’t seen Beth smoke before, but now she fumbled through her purse and came up with a battered pack of Winstons and a green plastic lighter. “For emergencies” she mumbled as she lit up, then blew a cloud toward the closed window. “It’s not just that it would upset the locals,” she said finally. “It’s that… well… some folks think there’s a compact.”

Charlie found his head tilting like a confused Labrador’s. Compact?

“With the Neighbors,” she said hesitantly. “Do you know about our Good Neighbors, Charles?” When he shook his head she frowned, like she’d bitten into something sour. “Well, most folks who settled around here are… old families. Scots-Irish and the like. Came to Dark Mountain direct from across the Pond, back before the Revolution even. And the story goes that the Neighbors moved with us. And the families treated with them, and they kept us out of entanglements and wars. Of course, we could probably use a few entanglements now,” she said ruefully as he stared, “but the compact holds. Or is supposed to. If you believe the story.” She smiled like she was just waking up and waved a hand through the smoke in front of her face.

“You’re talking about fairies?” he asked, unbelieving.

“No!” she barked, a flash of fear crossing her face. “I mean… let’s not use names like that. It upsets folks.”

“Okay,” he said, feeling embarrassed that he was humoring her. “Okay.”

“Well, the price in the compact– in the story, you understand– is that we don’t drive them away with songs about Jesus, and saints, and don’t offend them with stories about a ‘jolly old elf.’ We got to keep our churchbells but that’s about it.”


She nodded and took the opportunity drain the rest of your coffee cup. “You know the old church?” They all seemed old to him, but Charlie nodded anyway. “Those are old, iron bells, came all the way from Scotland, the kind that Cromwell liked to melt. The Neighbors are supposed to be big on traditions, so even though they don’t– aren’t supposed to– like the sound of churchbells, the churchbells stayed. Something about balance.

Anywho, for Christmas we just leave our Neighbors a… token for their Christmas dinner. That’s our holiday celebration… we leave some cookies or hot cider out on the porch so the Neighbors know the compact still stands.” She shrugged. “It’s a tradition, that’s all. We’re slow to change, too.”

Charlie forced a smile. “I’ve noticed.”

Beth chuckled and grinned, then snuffed out her Winston in an ashtray.

“That’s why we still smoke in the teacher’s lounge. Some folks saw you, they figured you’d make us put a stop to that for the children’s health. I told them not to fret, just because a man’s young doesn’t mean he can’t respect other people’s traditions. Especially when, good intentions or no, he’s likely to up and leave in a couple years.” Her eyes shone at him as she stared, her tone had gotten angry at the end, angry as everyone in this barren place. Eventually he remembered to nod.

“Let us keep Christmas our own way, young man.”

Charlie smiled, remembering his Dickens. “But you don’t keep it at all.”

Beth eyes remained cold. “Stay home on Christmas Eve, Charlie. You know how crazy we are here.”

He knew.


Charlie hadn’t wanted to upset anyone, of course, so he was prepared to leave well enough alone. If it hadn’t been for Becky McCrory that’s what he would have done.

Becky was a blonde first-grader in Charlie’s class with a perpetually sweet disposition and a perpetually runny nose. She was a trifle fragile, given to drama, but kind to the other kids, some of whom returned her affection while others bullied her for her trouble. Becky usually seemed undaunted, but that particular Monday morning she was silent and sniffling straight through to lunch. Charlie was her teacher; it was his job to find out if there was trouble and what it was.

Finding time to talk to one listless kid was difficult, but Charlie eventually found a moment during afternoon recess when red-faced Mrs. Morris had playground duty. Becky was alone, drawing in the dirt and still sniffling so rather than catching up on paperwork like he liked to do he made his way over and spoke to her.

“Bad day, sweetie?”

She hadn’t seen him coming and startled like a little bird, then gazed up at him and nodded with wide, red-rimmed eyes. She didn’t offer anything, though, and when he waited she just went back to drawing so he tried again. “Everything okay at home?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, “Yes, I mean, I mean no. I mean I talked to my auntie on the phone, Mister Krawl, and she was so sweet to me and we were having such a good time and then and then–” she paused to catch her breath “–and then she said she was going to send me a Christmas present and I got all excited and my daddy got mad, Mister Krawl, and he grabbed the phone away and he sent me to my room while he yelled at my auntie and then he told me I couldn’t get no nothing for Christmas.”

The unfairness of it struck Charlie dead in the chest. It had seemed all right– sad but all right– when he had first heard about the town’s Christmas-free policy, but he hadn’t realized that the children knew what they were missing. Seeing Becky start crying again, it was like a piece of ice in his heart. “You’ll get your present, Becky,” he said, looking down at the sobbing little girl and finally getting on his knees so she could cry on his shoulder. She stopped bawling for a moment and stared, only to start crying again.

“But how, Mister Krawl? How?”

Charlie surprised himself with a wink and a grin. “Santa Claus is coming to town.”

Charlie thought back on all of this grimly as he trudged through deepening snow, nearing midnight on Christmas Eve, his sack weighing heavy on his red-clad shoulder. The outfit was intended as a disguise of sorts in case any parents or children should glimpse Charlie delivering presents to the town’s front porches; now, remembering how angry Becky had said her father was, he hoped nobody would greet him with birdshot or worse. With his car delivering the gifts would have been easy, but now he had to make the deliveries on foot, get his car out of the snowbank and make sure no one connected him with the mystery that would appear on the front porches of (hopefully) every kid in town. The parents couldn’t take them all away, he reasoned, a few were bound to slip through, squirreled away– tiny Christmas miracles.

Charlie would be the first to admit the gifts were not amazing– cheap board games and dolls, packs of marbles, packs of mittens for kids with cold hands, chocolate-covered cherries and Hot Wheels cars. He’d had to go out of town to get them all without raising any suspicion, though; he hadn’t thought about the perpetual shortage of wrapping paper and stockings in Dark Mountain until it was almost too late. Fortunately, he had plenty of free time in the evenings, so he’d been able to wrap them all in time, chuckling as he listened to downloaded Christmas tunes through his headphones. Christmas felt subversive; subversion felt wicked and good. To a pack of kids who’d never had a Christmas, he hoped these primly wrapped packages would represent something extraordinary– memories they’d hold onto after they’d (he’d) left this grim little town. The town was small and there were many hours left until sunrise– Charlie figured he’d be able to deliver the gifts and walk back to his car– ditching the Santa suit in his trunk, he had a blanket in his back seat thank God– in time to meet AAA at his car before dawn. He hoped they’d let him request a tow from an out-of-town truck but there was nothing for it now. He trudged forward, knowing he needed to be swift, but feeling heavy and cold as the snow that was piling up on his black rubber boots.

Is the tread on these boots too distinctive? He wondered, then pushed the thought from his head. With only a flashlight to see the road with, the falling snow around him seemed a mixed blessing. He had to hope he wouldn’t get turned around, with all the trees looking alike, watching him the way they did, that was all. The dark and the snow made it hard to see the road. He hoped the batteries in the heavy maglight would last.

The roads twisting through the mountain forest weren’t as silent as Charlie would have imagined. Along with the constant susurrus of falling snow Charlie could hear nightbirds in the trees and small, curious footsteps that seemed to follow him through the underbrush. Flying squirrels, foxes, raccoons, ‘possums, deer– Charlie could name any number of harmless critters that would be out after dark. A story about Old Christmas flickered through Charlie’s head– Twelfth Night, the Feast of the Epiphany– how at midnight the animals could speak to each other. The snowfall sounded like whispers in the dark, and the thought of a deer suddenly bleating his name propelled Charlie forward faster than he’d intended. He stepped off the road and felt the snow crumble under his boot– a tiny misstep that suddenly multiplied into disaster as it felt like the world slipped away and Charlie found himself sliding down the steep bank next to the road. Miraculously, he kept his feet most of the way down, the sack of toys and other gifts balanced precariously on his shoulder. Towards the bottom, though, his foot struck a root and the heavy bag pulled Charlie forward like a towline. He half collapsed, his knees folding forward as the bag planted his face and fake beard firmly in the snow. He had to let go of the sack to push himself out of the snowbank and he heard it spill over in the dark. Cursing, Charlie was mad at first, but then he looked around. Never really meant to keep the chill out, his Santa suit and beard felt frozen after just a little wet. The maglight, thank God, was still in his nerveless hand but its beam seemed feeble, instantly swallowed up by the dark in the trees.

I can’t be lost, he thought, I’ll just follow the hill back up to the road. Comforting himself, he shone his light at the ground and saw his sack lying there, small gifts spilling out. He did his best to gather them up along with his dignity, then shone his light back up the hill, looking for the spot he’d slid down. He must have been confused, though, must have walked further than he’d thought because his tracks and slidemarks were missing– or at least he wasn’t finding them in his flashlight’s increasingly inadequate beam. The batteries were weak, he supposed. Around him, the falling snow sounded strangely like crystal, brittle laughter.

He’d climb back up the bank, he supposed, but in the deep snow the weight of his sack made it difficult. He’d climb three feet up only to slide back four. It struck him suddenly that any trace of his passage would be covered up by the falling snow in a matter of hours. It was like the forest had swallowed him whole.

He was tempted to leave the sack, but he couldn’t do that. It was for Becky, the kids. He was tired, hungry; his feet and fingers ached where the blood in them was retreating back to his core. The cold and wet were a problem, and the damned red jacked wasn’t as warm as Charlie’d thought. He’d try walking along the bank, parallel to the road. It was a twisting mountain road, though, and hard to keep in sight with only his weak light to guide him– the clouds and especially the trees seemed to swallow all the light from the sky. A snowy night can be very bright with a full moon out, he thought, but the moon must’ve gotten eaten up by the clouds blanketing the upper atmosphere. A passing thought struck him a glancing blow: strange things must live up there also, in the region between earth and sky.


Trying to keep the snow-covered hill on his right, he trudged forward. The snow seemed to get deeper as he walked, sucked at his boots, threatening to pull them off with each step. The temperature was already a problem– Charlie realized that a soaking wet sock might actually threaten his limbs if he couldn’t get out of the cold in time. Time was also a problem, but he didn’t think he could be far outside of town now. When he stooped to tug at his bootstraps, he felt boney tree branches tug at the bag on his back, nearly upending him. A strong wind must have blown the branches into him, but he hadn’t felt the icy blast that should have accompanied the blow. When he turned awkwardly around in the dark he didn’t see any branches nearby at all. He made sure he was continuing forward and not doubling back by studying his footprints; a part of his mind said not to bother. Only a few minutes in, and the cold and dark seemed to push down on him with physical weight. He wanted to sit and rest, but he remembered that tinkly laughter, thought he could hear patient footsteps in the brush behind him. God, it was cold. He pressed on.

Perhaps five minutes later his flashlight batteries finally gave out, and Charlie froze in place, listening to the dark. He heard the whisper of the falling flakes shattering on the trees and snow, he heard a distant wind; he heard the dark listening back. More than anything he wanted to drop the sack and run, forget about this silly Christmas plan of his, but where would he run to? Still, feeling pursued, feeling like the sky was getting darker, like the wind high in the trees was circling and looking to find him, for almost a minute Charlie picked up his boots and tried a stumbling run forward, clutching his dead maglight like an iron club. Running blind, he flew over the crest of a hill in the dark, and for a fraction of a second felt his feet churning nothing but darkness before he started to fall. Somehow, there was a tree in front of him. Somehow, it caught his foot, suspended him upside down. Somehow he still held onto his pack of gifts, holding the mouth shut and keeping the tiny cars and oranges from being lost in the snow. He heard the tinkling laughter again as he felt like he was being pulled up towards some unseen eye or frozen mouth. His red hat was snatched by gravity off his head and the darkness was absolute.

Then a chime rang through the forest– pure and cold and perfect, and in a moment of flawless coincidence the clouds in the sky sprang open and the moon shone through. Barely 2 inches from the snow, whatever branch was holding his boot slipped its grip and released Charlie. It wasn’t a graceful landing, covered his hair and fake beard with snow, but Charlie was able to make it to his knees as a second chime sounded through the woods, seemed to drive back the cold and the night. The nearby churchbells rang 10 more times– midnight on Christmas Eve– before falling silent, and the moonlight reflected off the snow, lighting the forest with a silvery version of morning light. The edge of the woods was only a couple hundred feet further, streetlights that had somehow been invisible before now impossible to miss. Charlie didn’t think about it, just walked forward towards the edge of the trees, a warmth growing in his heart like he’d just downed a shot of good whiskey.

Charlie left the first package on Tommy Bell’s front porch, where he helped himself to some of the hot cider warming in a little cauldron over a firepit in the front yard. It was strong, full of unfamiliar spices, made him feel hot and alive inside. Becky McCrory’s porch was the third one he reached, where he left chocolate, an orange, and plush versions of pony Princesses Celestia and Luna. He still had plenty of time to make his deliveries, he thought, crunching into one of the cookies the family had left on their porch. Cookies for Santa– what could be sweeter? It had been a hell of a night, but it was behind him now. The snow obscured Charlie’s vision, so he figured it would make it hard for anyone inside any of the homes to look out and see him delivering his gifts, even in the almost freakish moonlight. From house to house, Charlie kept walking.

His peddler’s pack was half empty when Charlie heard the footsteps, not so much crunching through the snow as softly padding on top of it. He turned and saw only snow, but the wind blew colder and harder as the pitter-pats drew closer– some walking calmly, some running swiftly, all lighter than the whisper of a luna moth’s wing.

Charlie’s first absurd thought was that the children had come to thank him– the forms he saw striding, dancing, hopping up the street were no bigger than children. Then, as one leapt delicately onto a front porch railing, Charlie could see its green jacket– so much like one of Santa’s elves at the mall, his little helpers. The figure felt him looking, though, and turned to regard Charlie with yellow eyes and a face made of shadows, and all the whimsy evaporated out of Charlie’s punch-drunk mind. The jacket was green leaves and thorns and grass, somehow both verdant and dead in the heart of winter. That first one leapt away with a tinny laugh, but he could see other little outlines just barely hidden by the snow. He must have made a sound, for now they were gathering, watching him in a crowd of 20 or more. He could see what looked like curving horns on one head; on another a red shape that he was certain was the Santa cap he had dropped back in the woods.

He considered running again, but didn’t want to leave his sack. Some part of him reminded him not to run from predators, though he couldn’t remember why not. Instead, Charlie took a step towards the diminutive crowd, heard whispers and a broken, tinkling laughter as the little forms melted backwards. Then, as Charlie took a second step, the crowd seemed to melt away… and something else stepped forward towards him.

The man was tall– 6 foot 6 or more– his coat was green moss, green as his eyes; his skin was an absurd Smurf blue. A narrow head crested with ice-white hair, cyan skin gouged with deep black scars that might have writing– on the man’s brow, his face, his throat. A crooked staff of dark wood rested in his hand. The blue man didn’t smile, or look angry or afraid. The eyes that met Charlie’s were tired, more than anything else. Tired and terribly alone.

“Elder,” the man said, lips parting to reveal flawless black teeth, almost the right shape for human teeth. Mimic buzzed Charlie’s mind, shifter, trickster, wasp. “Elder of men. It has been long since we have seen any of your kind. You honor us.” The blue man put his hand to his narrow chest and gave a kind of half-bow. The little speech wasn’t insincere, exactly, but there was no passion behind it. To Charlie it felt like a formality not quite forgotten. Charlie lifted a hand to his cheap white beard, realizing why this strange figure had called him ‘Elder.’ Charlie was cold, hadn’t known he could be colder, but a chill ran through him anyway as he realized he didn’t know the proper call-and-response.

“Urm, yes. You… honor me? As well?” Charlie began uncertainly, hoping for help, but the blue-skinned creature just watched him impassively. He felt the weight of the sack on his shoulder, heard a dance of footsteps behind him, whirled around to see 3 of the little figures scamper back away from him, hiding behind the falling snow. They moved like cats or squirrels, deformed apes but nimble; he could hear their small noses sniffing at him curiously. Charlie turned forward, and found that the tall one was much closer. Without thinking, Charlie opened his sack. “I brought gifts. For sharing. For Chris– the Solstice,” he amended, as he saw the yellow eyes in front of him start to widen furiously. The calm returned to the almost saturnine face, then, and the blue man nodded appreciatively.

“It is well, elder. We of the Winter Court thank you for cementing the friendship between us so near the Solstice, when the night is longest and the walls around the worlds wear thin. Many among us,” the blue man’s arms swept wide, describing the circle of barely-seen figures around them, “pine for the games we played with your folk of old.”

“Huh. Well, I brought games,” Charlie began carefully, handing a box to the stranger. “This one’s called Candy Land. I brought food, too. Chocolate–” he scattered boxes of cherry cordials into the crowd, and heard small feet scramble for them, “and oranges.” Charlie could feel the cold eyes getting closer from every side now, alien and full of mischief, but full of rules, too. They liked gifts and flattery, he was sure of it, and he felt gratified when a small prickly hand snatched the orange from his glove. Moving carefully, Charlie upended the bag on the street, letting the presents pour out and stepping back quickly. Charlie and the blue stranger watched as the little men and women in the green coats grabbed at toys and coats with hands, claws, and teeth. Charlie took another step back and another, and the blue-skinned man watched him unblinking then– with the tiniest smile– made a gracious, gratified gesture. Charlie knew better than to run, still, but if he didn’t turn his back then maybe he could disappear behind a curtain of snow…

“OLD ONE!” An iron-black face beneath Charlie’s own stolen Santa cap screeched at the tall blue man– who frowned, but didn’t bother to look at the speaker. “He has taken it. Our dinner. We all smell it on him!” There was something white in the little thing’s hand; it looked like sharpened bone. Oh God, Charlie thought suddenly, cookies and cider. Why? The figures at the mound of presents froze; eyes of ice and fire suddenly snapped towards Charlie. The blue man looked annoyed.

“He gives gifts of greater value, and asks nothing in return. Surely we can spare him a little warmth and sustenance?”

Charlie took an involuntary step back as the thing with a face like black stone hissed in response, black eyes shining, its mouth a nightmare of black stalactites and mites. “Nobles! All the same! No thought for us short folk! Ours by Compact! He had no right!”

Sadly, the blue-skinned man closed his tired eyes and nodded. “Very well. What payment do you offer?” Charlie’s jaw dropped, his mind went empty. The silence from his lips stretched out for too, too long. He took another step backwards, then another. The blue-skinned man’s face hardened. “You offer nothing?”

Charlie’s mouth went dry. “I… I already gave away the food I had…”

“Then give something else.”

Maybe his gloves? A song? But the only words Charlie’s heart knew in that moment were run. Run. Run! The moment stretched out and out until Charlie could feel the blue man’s patience break like rotten ice.

“Very well,” the tall blue thing said to the thing with the red cap and the sharpened bone. “It was your food. Take it back.” The crooked black teeth grinned.

Charlie wanted to scream, but the pain from the teeth and the bone froze the sound inside him.

They were cold– too cold to let any blood spill on the snow; instead he could feel it freeze inside him. He stiffened, fell shuddered, fell backwards like a trust fall where nobody caught him. In a second there was no pain, though he heard a splintering that must have frozen muscle and blood and skin. As he lay on his back, Charlie could hear the little black thing’s crooked teeth shearing through cloth and fat. It paused in its work then, crawled up so Charlie would see its red-fuzz-and-charnel-stained smile. “Thanks for hat, elder man,” it whispered maliciously into his ear, “hats are good payment, but now man-person can’t speak.” Its laugh was the sound of abandoned churches on moors, of graveyards at night, whispered into his ear. A laugh just for Charlie.

Charlie saw a steamy ghost of breath rise out of his mouth. He lay on his back like he was making a snow angel. Half a hundred eyes watched him, but Charlie was alone. Like crazy, broken laughter, the snowflakes fell and fell around him all night long.

On Stories 2: Visitation

Getting a holiday story just under the wire– January 6th is Old Christmas, the Twelfth Night.

I have a whole pile of ideas for scary Christmas stories that hit me 2 nights ago, just a little too late. I’ll ignore seasonal norms and post them as I feel the need. Right now, have some satire.


The light was the wrong color– a flickering yellowish-orange– and it came from the wrong direction– not from a window but an interior door. The door to the furnace room, in fact, just off from the makeshift bedroom my wife and I were in. Home for the holidays, we were staying with her parents. The room was in the basement, but thanks to a kind of well leading up to ground level, the single window provided decent sunlight during the day. 

I sat up with a start. It was deepest night and the light was nothing like the steady, calm radiance of sunlight but the living, nervous glow of flame. I started to scream, trying to wake my wife, but a deep voice silenced me. Hush is what it actually said. The voice was resonant and distant– musical. The sort of voice that should have intoned “Be not afraid.”

You’re asleep. She can’t hear you. A pregnant pause as I shifted in my bed and wondered what to do.

Don’t freak out, okay?

Read More

On Politics 4: The Adviser

Like a clear majority of the voting electorate I’ve watched the pre-presidential developments around the Trump White House with trepidation, interest, and a bit of raw fear. The president-elect somehow didn’t get the memo I sent him. He hasn’t made any real governance decisions as yet– even the recent lightning round of cabinet appointments is still subject to Mr. Trump’s whims and/or mood swings, and I’d be a fool to think that anything is set in stone.

Encouraged by recent developments or not, I still maintain that a positive public face is still superior to ideological name calling or hair pulling. So, I’m going to continue my little game of make believe and continue to publicly advise the presumed next president of the United States. A letter every week or two– delivered also to his inbox, though its been widely reported that neither presidential candidate knew how to use a computer, maybe an intern will occasionally print something out for him thrust his lower lip out at in a simulation of consideration?

Since I’m not an actual wizard


I don’t think this will influence policy or change any minds. However, giving the president-elect some pre-impeachment civility and constructive criticism– does he really think that not reading the daily briefings will insulate him?– for a year or so is bound to result in an interesting record. I promise not to cry in public where you can see me.

Dear Mister President-elect:

This is an open letter, the first– well second I’ve sent you, but the first one in a planned series– of many. You’ve got a presidency of unknowable length ahead of you, and I plan to use these to comment on the year or so. I hope you find them entertaining if not instructive; I know that it’s pretty unlikely you’ll see them at all. This is more of a record of my own thoughts than a missive for you, but if somehow someone prints it out so you can read it, if somehow any one of these letters moves you, then I’ll figure I hit the jackpot. And then I’ll keep writing. It’s the only thing I know to do.

Congratulations are in order. Regardless of recounts, Russia, and the popular vote you are headed into the White House. The Rule of Law basically guarantees this; it is one of the traditions that has marked the United States’ hundred years or so of uninterrupted imperfect greatness. I hope you will enjoy your new home even if it has remarkably little gold leaf on its furniture. I know you have standards.  In preparation for your time in the White House, my wife purchased pocket copies of the Constitution for all of her students. Our local combination gun shop/toy store distributes American flag pins, and we wear ours unironically.

Going into office you have some considerable challenges ahead of you– more than most American presidents, more than most world leaders. You are entering office with a clear victory in the Electoral College, but nearly a 2% deficit in the popular vote; you have the highest unfavorability rating of any incoming president in decades.The decisions you make now are going to impact your entire presidency– its efficiency, its legitimacy, and eventually its legacy.

I’m a presumptuous person. That’s the only explanation for my decision to send you unsolicited advice. Admittedly, I’ve never felt like any other U.S. president could use my help, but I’m intelligent and educated and a political outsider. I also have no foreign or domestic policy experience. Based on your staffing decisions thus far, only my education stands as a strike against me, so I’ll presume to continue but I’m going to have to set some rules for myself.

Rule 1: I’m only going to address your actions– I can’t know your reasons, and that’s okay. The actual things you do are going to matter more than your intentions, so no guesses on my part, no insinuations.

Rule 2: No name calling. Name calling is the surest way to undermine civil discussion. Be it Fuckface von Clownstick, “Crooked Hilary,” or even “deplorable” it makes it hard to engage the other side. Democracy needs multiple sides. I get that the point of an election or a Twitter war is not engagement so I’m not going to worry about other people’s histories as name callers. It is an action, though, and as the Philippines’ President Duterte has demonstrated, it can have consequences. So I won’t call you or your friends names, but any time a world leader or political rival acquires an unflattering nickname I will have to notice.

Rule 3: Constructive criticism. I’m not just going to tell you “you’re bad.” I’ll probably disagree with you a lot, but I won’t lie to you, and I won’t offer a criticism without also offering a solution.

I’m not delusional. I don’t think you’re going to read these letters. If you do read them, I don’t think you’ll see them, slap your forehead, and suddenly appoint someone with actual human experience in urban planning in charge of HUD. Sincere or not, brilliant or not, advice from strangers has less influence on our decisions than advice from trusted advisers. You’ve got advisers, trusted and otherwise, crawling all over you now. I can only hope that they’ll give you the best advice and, when the time comes, you’ll listen.

Therefore, you’re going to need better advisers. I’m not exaggerating when I say your lack of political experience is historic, and the fact that you are already having to abandon many of your pre-election promises as unworkable should clue you in to the fact that your going to need some new ideas. Ideas that could, you know, work.

You like to point out that you are a smart person. Here’s my advice to smart people, by way of 90s television. It’s at the end of the clip.

You catch that? Surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you. You still make the decisions, and you free yourself from the burden of toadies, echo chambers, and transparent manipulators. You stand a chance of being the president for all Americans you’ve said you want to be and– let’s face it– you’ll end up making decisions that are based on facts instead of guesses and opinions. Also, you might hear the word ‘kleptocrat’ a bit less often. Since it’s becoming a major vocabulary word for the American public– is 171,000 results ‘major’ enough?– I’d imagine that would be a relief.

I know you feel personal loyalty to Steven Bannon, for example. He’s a part of your victory. His ties to white supremacists are undeniable, though. People like Bannon are not going to make your presidency easier or better. Neither is Jeff Sessions, Rex Tillerson, Rick Perry, Ben Carson. Experienced people who care about their work are what you need. Otherwise you get a team of people each driven only by their particular prejudices and assumptions, unwilling to look at facts. People who are only looking to get something for themselves out of their newfound power. That’s how people– Americans– get hurt by their government.

You can’t make American great(er) by making it worse.

See you after Christmas


Matthew Z. Wood


Philosophe Stupide

On Reading 1: Christmas Ghosts

There’s a nearly-lost tradition of Christmas ghost stories. The most famous, of course, is Darles Chickens’ A Christmas Carol, where 3 spirits +1 troll a mean old man mercilessly until he becomes a better person. All joking aside, it’s a magnificent tale– one that Dickens himself considered relatively unimportant, but a story most of us know better than The Pickwick Papers or The Mystery of Edwin Drood. This is partially because it’s short– novella length, and Dickens is well known for being paid by the word for his serials. It’s also because it’s a great story. Not only is A Christmas Carol creepy, well-written, and strange, it takes an unlikable protagonist– the miser, Ebenezer McDuck– and by telling his story it humanizes him. It even humanizes him to himself, lets him forgive himself, and start giving himself to the world again. Plus, you know, Muppets.

When he wrote this story, Christmas was very nearly dead in England. Oliver Cromwell, the late Lord Protector of England, had hated fun and religious fun with no scriptural basic most of all. He had declared an actual war of Christmas… which, you know, one step lower than the actual murderwar he declared on everyone he disagreed with, but it was still really bad. This combined with the Industrial Revolution’s busier pace meant that, by Dickens’ day, fewer people could take the day off to celebrate Christmas.

The curious thing is that, in spite of all of the above, Dickens had experienced enough of the holiday to mourn its loss in prose. He didn’t anticipate the story’s incredible success– he ended up doing numerous live readings, touring not only England but also the United States, and made a huge amount of money in the process. Almost as an accident, he rekindled an interest in the holiday, both in England and on this side of the Atlantic; without this story it wouldn’t be celebrated in (largely non-Christian) Japan as the equivalent of Valentine’s Day.

And without the tradition of Christmas ghosts it wouldn’t have been written.

Christmas-themed horror movies are totally a thing and in fact 1974’s Black Christmas predated Friday the 13th (1980) and Halloween (1978) and basically invented the slasher genre. It’s also an actual good movie– not great, but good– if you’re in the market for such things. And I think we can all agree that there’s something sinister about the identical Santas that line our malls and streetcorners and those unblinking angels that sit in judgement from the tops of Christmas trees. And nothing could be scarier than the Elf on the Shelf.

With that in mind, here are some ghoulish Christmas stories, stories of ghosts, old school Irish Faeries, and other dangers to life and sanity.

Richard Chase’s Grandfather Tales is where I first encountered both the idea of Old Christmas (aka Twelfth Night– it’s off topic so Google it) and the idea that wonderful/terrible things might occur. The story “Old Christmas Eve” only ends up listing a handful of creepy stories in the margins, but I do love it and the affection the book has for these traditions.

M.R. James was perhaps the greatest ghost story writer of his era, and he made sure he had a fresh ghost story every Christmas. Either check them out here at thin-ghost.org or, if you’re feeling adventurous, trying looking up the 5 James-based stories from the BBC’s “A Ghost Story for Christmas.” My personal favorite James stories include “Casting the Runes,” “Count Magnus,” and “Lost Hearts.” “There Was a Man Dwelt By a Churchyard” is the one that’s most obviously a Christmas ghost story; it completes the never completed tale in Shakespeare’s “The Winter’s Tale.”

H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Festival” is a nicely creepy Yuletide story. It’s Lovecraft, so it’s all Necronomicon this and “madness from beyond the stars” that, but I like it.

E.F. Benson’s– yes, scary writers love their initials, don’t they?– “Between the Lights” is a story of croquet and Christmas ghouls, as delicious as any goose dinner.

Algergnon Blackwood has by far the most satisfying name for any horror writer ever. “The Kit-Bag” is his story of holiday travels and misplaced luggage turned murderous.

Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw is the most famous of the ones I’ve opted to list here. Honestly, it gives the tradition a better known writer to attach it to, beyond Dickens and Shakespeare and Marlowe… oh wait? Are those the greatest names in English literature? Boopsie!

Finally, W.B. Yeats’ “The Twisting of the Rope” is a short, sharp shock that should remind readers that faeries aren’t all sweetness and butterfly wings, regardless of what pop culture has managed to turn them into. No one knew this better than Yeats, who loved stories of Irish magic and horror.

And of course I do love scary movies, so here’s Robert Zemeckis’ delightful short from 1989’s Tales from the Crypt. Much better and than the series– and the series episode of the same name. Enjoy!

Read and drink deep this holiday season, friends. I’ll have a seasonal tale of my own to share soon enough.

On Guests 1: Multilevels, Markets, and You

Not surprisingly, the first guest blogger on my site is the smart to my stupid, my lovely wife Liz. Liz is a Research Scientist for Washington State University, and is completing her dissertation in Disability Health Studies at UNC’s School of Public Health. She’s a genuine expert on statistics, policy, and the power of numbers in human lives.

By night, she fights crime.

Somehow, this combination brought her to Reddit. A poster was making arguments in favor of LuLaRoe, a multilevel marketing company (translation: pyramid scheme) that lets you buy their clothes so you can… sell them? There’s a $5,500 “investment” required up front, and you have to order more from them every month. The person promoting the company was advertising it as a ‘work from home’ opportunity for moms– aka ladies with no free time. Liz used the numbers provided to put together a best-case scenario for the unfortunate souls that fall into LuLaRoe’s clutches.

At least this pyramid monster is straightforward about his intentions.

The original poster did not reply back.

With her permission, I’ve excerpted her post below. While these specific numbers do not apply to every huckster, shyster, and snake-oil salesman in corporate form, feel free to apply the lesson herein more broadly.

First, here are her numbers. I have trouble trusting anyone who doesn’t want to share their data, so I don’t know why I’d ask my readers to.

Here’s her post. Enjoy.

That chart from LuLaRoe is bonkers and makes no sense as a table. I am procrastinating and did some math. Here are my assumptions, I tried to err on the side of generosity:
The LuLaRoe chart suggests that you can charge about $27.72 per piece (Gross Sales Per Month, divided by four, then divided by pieces per week as per their chart). So I rounded up to $28.

An initial cost of $5500 and 381 pieces works out to about $14.44 cost to the seller per piece, I rounded down to $14.

I honestly have no idea how to estimate how long you would deal with each piece from start to finish (ordering, receiving, storing, selling, delivering, travel, taxes, social media, and bookkeeping) but I estimated it at thirty minutes a piece (which I think is pretty low? I thought five hours a week was probably the lowest you could do for a home business).

Taxes on self-employment income run about 35%.

[...]I did the math at selling 10 pieces per week, 20, 30, etc. up to 100. If you sold ten pieces a week, you would have replaced the initial $5500 in twenty weeks (five months). (In other words, your gross income would cross the $5500 threshold at that point and not sooner.) If you sold 100 pieces per week, you would have replaced the initial $5500 in only two weeks.

(I also think the whole "pay yourself back" thing is kind of a distraction because it doesn't really account for the time costs. Assuming my assumptions are okay, you'd work for free for 98 hours before hitting the break even point, regardless of whether you got there in two weeks at 100 pieces a week or five months at 10 pieces a week.)

After the break even point, assuming the same prices, costs, and times, you could do from $136 net revenue per week (10 pieces) up to $1356 net revenue per week (100 pieces). That works out to about $27 an hour, pre-tax.

So here are some scenarios for a year, ranked from least to most profitable.

Get started, immediately quit. You are in the hole $5500, LuLaRoe is up $5500 (minus their manufacturing costs, etc.).

Get started, work until the break-even point, quit. You have neither earned nor lost money, LuLaRoe is up $5500, and you are out 98 hours of work.

Get started January 1st, sell 50 pieces a week and hit the break even point within a month. Earn $72,800 in the year (2600 pieces at $28 a pop) and pay 35% of it in taxes (leaving $47,320). Spend $29,120 on inventory (2600 pieces at $14 a pop). Net revenue is $8,736 for the year, working out to $8.40 an hour for 52 weeks of 25 hours a week.

Get started January 1st, sell 100 pieces a week and hit the break even point within two weeks. Continue to work 50 hours a week, 52 weeks a year, selling 100 pieces a week (debatable as to how doable this is while also providing childcare). Earn $145,600 in income (5200 pieces at $28 a pop) and pay 35% of it in taxes (leaving $94,640). Spend $72,800 on inventory (5200 pieces at $14 a pop). Net revenue is $21,840 for the year, working out to $8.40 an hour for 52 weeks of 50 hours a week.

That is a lot of risk to take on and a lot of hours to be in the bottom quartile of earnings for the U.S. with no health insurance. [...] I would proceed with caution.

On Politics 3: Open Letter to a President

Dear President Obama,

I know a part of you is probably looking forward to January 20. You’ve done the most exhausting job in the world for 8 years and you’ll finally have a chance to rest. A goodly portion of yourself– and myself, if I’m honest– is also probably dreading the day. The transition from ‘leader of the free world’ to ‘ex-president’ must be a strange one under any circumstances. How much stranger is it this year? How hard must it be to voluntarily give up the reins of power when no one can do more than guess at what a Trump presidency is going to mean for– and do to– this country?

I respect you all the more for handling the transition like an adult, though. I haven’t always agreed with you or your policies, but I have always appreciated the maturity you brought to the Oval Office. I thought it was a much needed commodity after the W. Bush years, a time when most Executive officials spoke to the American people like they were children asking annoying questions and when the Executive himself talked to the people and the press like a frat boy being forced to apologize for breaking the world economy.

God, how I’ll miss those days.

I voted for you twice. Some would take issue with this, but you did a lot of uniting. Not just our first black president but our first nerd president; hip-hop fans, comic book fans, and even basketball fans could all relate to you. You bridged the gap between jocks and nerds in your own person, and looked good doing it. You worked hard, but when you decided to meet with celebrities or with little kids dressed as Spider-Man you were obviously having a blast. You were a complete human being throughout your presidency and, even though you’re hardly universally beloved, I think you raised the standard there. Your successors might find themselves trying a little bit harder to be a little bit cooler as a result. Cooler in a “be nice to kids and old people” way. That makes me smile.


One of the true landmark moments from your first campaign was when you spoke to the American people about race. You talked to us not just like an adult, but like we were also adults. Thank you for that. You briefly elevated the discussion, changed what was possible if only for a little while. It was up to the rest of the nation to take the cue after that. I feel like we missed our cue, missed a lot of opportunities. I’m not surprised that things didn’t go perfectly, though, just a bit wistful.

I think people will remember your achievements… you know, eventually. I think historians will look back on your record of domestic success favorably. You successfully reformed the nation’s health care system– not perfectly, but successfully. My wife’s a policy expert and more than once she’s told me that the ACA (Obamacare, if you must) will probably survive as long as the pharmaceutical and insurance lobby wants it to survive. Big institutions don’t like big chaos; she’s right that it will probably outlive the 2-4 years I figure Trump will stay in office.

You and your right hand, Hilary Rodham, oversaw the death of Osama bin Laden, one of America’s greatest enemies. Mixed feelings about political assassinations aside, this was clearly a substantial victory, one that few could gainsay. That’s why your detractors generally forget about it, along with how your policies pulled us back from the brink of economic collapse. You spent 8 years trying to do the best things for this country, trying to pull it out of a hole that had taken 8 years of deregulation to dig, and trying to make sensible, fact-based decisions that would help Americans. And getting yelled at about imaginary attempts to take away people’s guns.

And now all I hear is that we’re now in a “post-fact” era.


Eras don’t last forever and some are remarkably short. Gone is the era of iPods, of landlines, of Disco Stu memes and all your base belonging to us. This whole “post-fact” thing might be more of a trend, we might be in more of a “post-Pokemon” era.

I think actions, words, and even morality have to be based on facts to mean anything. So… here’s hoping?

Even if the past 8 years had gone perfectly we’d probably be exactly where we are today. But I’m glad you were my president. You brought competence back to the White House; in spite of intransigent legislatures you tried to focus on real problems. Even when I didn’t agree with your solutions, I at least agreed that ISIS and the healthcare crisis were real problems endangering and harming Americans. You didn’t get bogged down in the endless nonsense that your Congress lived and breathed. As often as possible you rose above it.

You were a winner. Based on the recent Electoral College outcome– though not the popular vote— we got tired of winning. But I never saw you lose, sir. And yes, I would have preferred fewer drone strikes. I would have preferred a harder line with Syria, with Russia. I would have preferred no prison in Guantanamo. Most of all, I preferred an executive who made hard decisions and cared about the results but wasn’t destroyed by them. That’s what I got. Thanks Obama!

Respectfully yours,

M.Z. Wood


Philosophe Stupide

On Writing 2: NaNoWriMo: Autopsy of a November

I never officially signed up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) this year. Their website was overloaded on November 1st and wouldn’t let me on. After the first day I was already writing, so it didn’t seem like a good use of my time.

I'll happily download images from their site, though.

I’ll happily download images from their site, though.

Like so many of the other official things about NaNoWriMo, signing up wasn’t really the point. Writing 50,000 words wasn’t really the point. Finishing a novel in 30 days wasn’t really the point.

The point was to start building something, and to learn from the process. So here’s my breakdown on November 2016, what went right, what went wrong, how I’m feeling now, and a few numbers to hopefully connect my statements with reality.

First, my raw output was 25,988 words, which is less than my goal, but is still about 115 pages double-spaced. My first Masters thesis was about 90 pages long, my second 75; I wrote over 40 pages in 8 hours for my MLS comprehensive exam. I’ve certainly written faster in my life, but this is not just the longest piece of fiction I’ve worked on in my life. Halfway through, this is already the longest document I’ve ever written. It’s not perfect, and entire days’ worth of work are not very good, and most importantly it’s not done. I’m convinced it’s worth finishing, so I feel pretty great about that.

In terms of my work breakdown, I worked 17 of the 30 days in November. I only have daycare 4 weekdays right now; my wife works 5 days a week and my in-laws work more than that. My daughter, perfect and wonderful as all daughters are, is 3 years old and not yet independent enough to play by herself for an hour if I ask her for some time. However, my wife was generous and made sure to protect my time on weekends, so I typically got between 2-4 hours of writing in on a given Sunday afternoon. I also took the day off after the election to feel angry and depressed and to write an ad hominem filled open-letter to Donald Trump. I spent half of the following day writing the much more productive letter that I published on this site, but I also made my quota that day so it counts as a writing day.

Thanksgiving kind of kicked my butt in a different way. Yes, it was only one additional day off away from my computer, but I didn’t write that weekend either. I didn’t even make the attempt. Monday ended up being a 500 word day because I couldn’t get my feet back under me. Tuesday I spent an absurd amount of time doing necessary but exhausting chores– airplane tickets are even harder to buy when you’re spending someone else’s money– and probably wrote around 200 words at the very tail-end of the day. However, those 200 words felt absurdly good.

Mathematically, I didn’t meet my quota for my daily word count. I regularly managed to write 1,600 words a day, and on good days I broke 2,000 words. Bad days where I wrote 500-800 words hurt my average more than I thought, though– only counting the days I worked, I ended up with an average of 1,500 words a day. My first feeling is to chastise myself– 100 words is a mere handful, I can easily write that in a quarter hour. As a person who has spent half his life yelling at his brain– and the other half on his brain yelling back– it’s not a very useful response. If I got 1,500 words a day written for 4 days a week for a year I’d be thrilled! I’d also probably have a few books written. I think the better lesson is that if I write for many days in a row then it feels good and I get things done.

Sundays afternoons were some of my most productive writing days, sometimes resulting in over 2,000 words. I think knowing that someone else was making a sacrifice for me, and knowing that I only had a little bit of time for work, helped. I also didn’t have to worry about soloing my little girl as I got her ready for pre-school, driving her in, and then trying to change my entire mindset as I sat down and stared at a blank screen. It was a short enough time that I didn’t have to worry much about food, exercise, and bathroom breaks either. To apply this lesson, I’m going to try setting aside smaller blocks of writing time as absolute and sacrosanct. As the saying goes, I’ll poop when I’m dead, amIright?



A lot of the things I’ve learned from the last 30 days are things I technically already knew. Life gets in the way of creation. The only way to do something is to stop thinking about it and do it. That angry, confused Twitterbot less than half of voters elected is going to be a grotesque hybrid of Silvio Berlusconi and Warren Harding. I feel better when I get to the gym. Obvious stuff, really. By actually doing the experiment, though, I’ve proved that I don’t have to work obsessively. I just need to work consistently. I don’t have to rewrite every scene until it’s perfect. I need to write every scene, learn from them as I write them, and be prepared for the arduous editing process to come.

This time next year, I’ll have a finished novel. It won’t be published, but if I’m lucky some of my friends will like the first chapter well enough to show it to their agents. If I’m not lucky… I’ve still written a novel about a reluctant teenage supervillain. My life and the world will be immeasurably– in the strictest sense, because good luck measuring this stuff– better for my work. And I’ll have a whole new fictional world to play around in.

Plus, Peter and Tink aren’t even in The Neverworld yet. I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet! WE CAN’T STOP HERE, THIS IS BAT COUNTRY!

Never stop here, friends. Everywhere is Bat Country.

On Politics 2: Open Letter to a Fighter

Dear Secretary Clinton,

I know. I know, I know, I know.

Okay, I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s like to devote so much energy, so many decades towards a goal, to log achievement after achievement only to have the Electoral College say “Nope. We’d prefer a record of actual literal fraud and hate speech and also Internet yelling to a record of leadership. Now let’s see how long it takes for him to go full Berlusconi on the U.S.!” This is who will represent us in the event of a crisis and, if we are lacking crises, will manufacture them for us.

There was a time, call it 1999, when I’d started to feel the way many people do. There weren’t enough differences between the 2 parties. My views were not represented, not in the absolute fashion I would have liked anyway. I felt like politics were increasingly irrelevant to my increasingly busy existence. I was an adult, and the passions that drove my early political involvement felt like childish things.

Then George W. Bush took office and, in a short 8 years, I watched the international respect that your husband had built for our nation dissolve, watched the international economic system nearly fall apart in the wake of a crisis enabled by the W. Bush administration’s absolute faith in deregulation. And of course, I watched our country go to war in several regions nearly simultaneously– wars that destabilized much of the globe while also not representing our international best interests.

I was slow to learn to the lesson, but I learned it. Competence matters.

When I voted for you in the general election– I voted for Sanders in the primary, but I didn’t feel shocked or agrieved when he lost– I was voting for competence. Not for someone I would always agree with. Not for a perfect candidate, but a smart and able and competent one who would move forward on the progress of the last 8 years. Someone with experience and courage and mental toughness– as Donald Trump called you during one of your debates, a fighter.

You won everything that should count. You won 3 debates– easily. You won the popular vote by over 2 million votes– almost 1% of the total electorate. Maybe this is what your opponent meant when he said Americans would be tired of winning? So tired that they wouldn’t pick a winner? But we both believe in the rule of law, you and I and I don’t know about that other guy, and the Electoral College is our nation’s law. We will grumble– well, I will– but accept what’s happened because the alternatives are so much worse.

I don’t know. I really don’t. It must be so frustrating– you’ve weathered a smear campaign that continued unabated since the early ’90s. You’ve managed to tolerate invasions into your privacy, insults to your daughter, and bizarre conspiracy theories that frame you as a murderer, a traitor or worse. It’s never been enough for your opponents on the Right to attack your beliefs, they’ve always come after you as a person. You’ve seen the rise of misinformation, replacing reality in American minds as surely as carbon monoxide replaces oxygen in human bloodstreams. You’ve not always been perfect, but you’ve weathered so many storms with poise that you make the Gorton’s fisherman look soft.

Sometimes you even dressed the part.

Sometimes you even dressed the part.

In your place I woulda just stabbed a fool on national TV, woulda just looked at those jiggly white faces that love to make up facts about your family and said “I will cut you.”

I don’t know what will happen next. I don’t know what kind of president you would have been, or what kind of president Mr. Trump will be– as I will reiterate here, we are what we do, and other than garner attention and declare bankruptcy he has done so little. I think our nation missed an opportunity. I think your presidency would have mattered and not just for symbolic reasons. I think we are bleeding from the hole we shot in our own foot. And I’m scared for what will happen next.

You’ve always been a fighter. Please don’t give up now– I mean, yes, don’t challenge the electoral results or anything (even though I kinda want you to). But we’re going to need leadership in the days to come, going to need that fighting spirit– many fighting spirits. Thank you for fighting, and thanks for not giving up on America. Our next act will be painful– self-inflicted wounds always are. Just think of the recovery, though, of the lessons we’ll learn. This is what I have to believe, anyway.

Moving Forward and Fingers crossed,

M.Z. Wood


Philosophe Stupide