Ira Robinson's Blog

This is how my weird eyes look from the side. Image by Author’s wife

There are many forms of blindness and almost as many degrees between them.

I was born with a genetic defect called Keratoconus.

While a normal eye is shaped like an egg, and has about the same consistency as a hard-boiled one, my eyes are different. They are softer, especially around the corneas, and it makes them shaped somewhat like pyramids.

If you were to look at me from a side-view, it’s pretty striking how much they protrude.

When you add in distortions this kind of thing can cause to the extreme amount of scarring on the corneas I am saddled with, you might realize how much the vision is affected.

It’s like someone wrapped cellophane around your skull and pulled it real tight, then telling you to read the smallest letters on a board.

The Trip to Wal-Mart began with hardship.

I rarely go anywhere alone, my loving wife usually accompanying me wherever I go so I don’t get lost and turned around. When I’ve tried to do things on my own, I have walked into walls or tables.

However, last year, she had to undergo a critical heart operation and was down for the count for a long while afterward, some days barely being able to get up out of bed.

Despite her having to go through it, shopping still had to be done to feed the family, and we were lucky enough to live in an area we could get delivery of groceries for a while.

One day during her recovery, though, we ran out of bread and needed to get some more. Being rather poor, we could certainly not afford to order delivery service for a simple loaf of bread, so I was tasked with going to get more.

My wife could drive by this point, but because we were still in the deep throes of the pandemic, we felt it was unsafe for her to get exposed to any potential viruses (COVID or not), so I asked her to wait in the car while I went inside to find the bread.

I grabbed my little white cane, so I’d have less risk of walking into something I shouldn’t, and made my merry way into Wal-Mart.

Image by Author

Let me tell you folks… on a good day, going into Wal-Mart for me is overwhelming. Going in alone was even worse.

The hugeness of the space immediately overcame me, the echoes and smells, the burble of people talking loud and babies crying even louder ripping through my ears.

But I was determined. After all, it was just a loaf of bread I sought. It shouldn’t be that hard, right?

Right?

I have just enough low vision to be dangerous to myself and others, but if I squint hard, I can sometimes at least keep from crashing into things, and having the cane is a help. Getting enough of an acuity to see specific items on the shelves or seeing what is on the signs above the aisles, however, is out of the question.

I really don’t know what I was thinking of by trying to do it on my own, but there I was regardless, shuffling up and down one aisle after the other, all while crowds of people in masks (and not) passed me by blithely, not knowing how much frustration was growing inside of me with each passing minute.

The frustration grew untenable.

I tried, in vain, to find an employee to ask them where the bread was in the store, and I was hesitant to stop someone to ask. I’m a man, tall with a long unkempt beard and hair, and I didn’t want to do anything to make someone nervous about me.

After ten minutes, though, my frustration was reaching a peak. After fifteen, I began to cry.

One unfortunate thing about my particular condition is my eyes are extremely sensitive. Not just to light, but even air, as well. Any changes in humidity or salt content will make things flare up in a bad way.

That includes tears, my friend.

The salt in my tears hit my corneas, and I was even worse, the pain intensifying to the point I could barely even think straight.

So, there I was, in the middle of the Wal-Mart shopping aisles, my hair a complete mess and my eyes streaming like a madman, trying to maneuver past people who were paying no attention at all.

As I did my best to walk with the cane in front of me, a couple walking with their cart even rammed into me, careless about the fact that I was obviously having some kind of problem. They didn’t even have enough humanity to move to the side to pass me by.

They expected me to be the one to move, though I was on the right side and they were coming from the other direction.

It was pitiful.

I was pitiful.

An unexpected salvation…

Finally, there was a tap on my shoulder and I turned around, trying to squint through the agony in my betraying eyeballs enough to see who it was.

An older lady, I think, asked me if I was okay and I muttered that I was looking for bread.

She led me to the place I could find some, and I thanked her deeply as I grabbed the first loaf I could put my hands on. I didn’t care what kind it was or how much it might cost.

She even helped me get to the front of the store so I could pay for it and make my way through the exit into the cold, snowy air and into the car.

I begged my wife to never let me do anything like this to myself again.

Image painted by Author

I am grateful to that kind soul who took a moment out of their day to help me get through it all. I am glad that there is at least some modicum of humanity left in the dark world we’re in.

Being alive today sometimes sucks, I know. Having any kind of medical condition along with it is difficult, at best, and traumatizing on top of it all.

If you see someone struggling, please ask if there’s anything you can do to help. Believe me, most of us who have issues like these would be grateful for the compassion you show.

If you would like to support Ira in his efforts to help feed his family, please consider becoming a member of Medium. A portion will be given to him at no extra cost to you, and you’ll not only be helping this blind man take care of his needs, you’ll also be supporting every other author on Medium, as well.  Please go here to begin your membership today !

The post A Blind Man Cried in Wal-Mart appeared first on Original Worlds.

Image Painted by Author

I will admit I had an odd circumstance for a religious upbringing.

My mother was raised a Catholic, while my father was an atheist. When I was young, they decided to start going to a Southern Baptist church, while sending me to a Lutheran school.

In my teen years, I rather rebelled against that upbringing, seeking spirituality in other ways, flitting from one thing to another and not really finding satisfaction with any.

I also carried with me the memories of the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father as he drank one glass after another of whiskey, and how my mother would not only capitulate to it, but try to cover everything up as well.

There finally came a time when he stopped drinking and the abuse ended, but once that sort of trauma occurs, it’s difficult, at best, to recover. Now that I am in my 50s and can look back on the different pathways my life has been on, I can try to piece together some sort of harmony to move beyond it all.

At least, that’s my hope.

For decades, I carried a lot of anger towards my father for the things he put me, and my mother, too, through, and have never quite been able to rationalize the dichotomy that formed after he stopped drinking.

You see, after he got sober, he did truly become a different person. He tried to do his best after that to be a positive influence in the world, and I am glad of it. However, that doesn’t change what happened as I was growing up.

In my mind, there are two different men I would say were my fathers. The one was a good person, and would never hurt a fly if it landed on his face. The other was a man filled with loathing of life and took it out on everyone around him.

I’ve grown to understand mental illness, having suffered from different forms of it in my own life (some of which are related to PTSD, as you could probably assume), and have been able to take a more compassionate view on him, at least on the surface.

But there are still times where that small child huddling in the corner, scared for his life, wants to come out. It’s in those moments I realize just how far I have yet to go when it comes to healing from the traumas.

Most of my upbringing was within one church setting or another, and the phrase “Honor thy father and mother” was an immense deal. They pressed it into the head of every child. After all, it’s one of the “Big 10” and to disobey it was to bring the wrath of God down on one’s feeble little body.

Yet, that was happening at the same time, as my father would take another drink and give a heavy thwack for me not tying my shoes correctly or fast enough. Then would come the fifteen minutes of incoherent screaming about the useless thing I was.

I simply could not rationalize how I was supposed to give honor to this man I despised, yet knowing if I didn’t somehow accomplish it, it would doom me to perdition.

It just didn’t seem right. It wasn’t fair.

Image by Author

Meanwhile, I felt much animosity towards the mother of my life, the one who was supposed to protect me from such things happening. She did nothing but continue confirming how apparently deserving I was of such treatment by saying nothing against it and trying to “smooth over the ruffled feathers” of my bruised body and ego.

That, too, was something to honor?

These are hard questions and even harder to come to terms with. I don’t think even after all these years I have any answers, other than the idea of forgiveness. Even that is easier said than done.

Sometimes, I can do no more than to “fake it ’til I make it” and pay lip-service to absolving. Other days are easier. Those days, ones filled with joy and laughter with the family I have made for myself, can at least help mitigate when the emotional crumbling occurs out of nowhere.

How do you give honor to a father or mother who frankly does not deserve it?

The sad answer is: sometimes you can’t.

What we’re shackled with are chains too difficult to bear, and we need help to extricate ourselves from them. The weight of them has to be carried by someone else for a while.

Sometimes, all we can do is walk away from the family we’re genetically saddled with and start over again.

All we can do is hold that child within us as they shiver in the night from fear and reassure them that things will get better.

The sins of our fathers and mothers do not have to become our own.

If you would like to support Ira in his efforts to help feed his family, please consider becoming a member of Medium. A portion will be given to him at no extra cost to you, and you’ll not only be helping this blind man take care of his needs, you’ll also be supporting every other author on Medium, as well.  Please go here to begin your membership today!

The post Sins of Our Fathers and Mothers appeared first on Original Worlds.

Words are valuable.

One thing I have tried to express to other authors is how important it is to think about your stories, articles, novels and anything else you put to page (or screen) as how valuable your words are.

They are property, no different from real estate or a car. They can be sold, traded, given away as gifts, or neglected until they rot into nothingness.

It’s therefore important to do everything you can to ensure they’re protected.

I learned that lesson the hard way, and hopefully you can hear my story and take action now to protect yourself better.

The cycle of destruction

When I was a younger man (Oh God, three decades ago!) I was married to a woman who was abusive. She took great pleasure in making me a miserable person, and getting away from her was one of the best things I have done with my life.

Unfortunately, before I got the chance to escape, she decided it would be in my best interest to teach me my writing was useless and to give up on my dreams of becoming an author by throwing everything into a bonfire.

All the pages I had typed, the handful of floppy disks I had backed things up on, reams of notes scribbled into books with care — all gone to ashes in a matter of moments.

I could do nothing more than stand there with tears as it all happened, knowing I would be struck mercilessly if I did anything to interfere.

It took a lot out of me to see it happen. It was a few years before I was able to use a typewriter again.

A second season of despair

Then another relationship went badly, and when she left, she took everything with her. I came home from work to discover everything gone and she had disappeared with the little I had put together after leaving my ex-wife.

I think it was another decade before I could do any other writing. Even to this day, getting started is difficult.

I tell you these things not for sympathy, but to gain an understanding of why these days I am rather obsessive about backing up my data in various ways.

I thought I would share some of my methods so you can, perhaps, be saved some of the heartache I’ve been through after that kind of loss.

Image by AuthorScrivener Auto-Backup

I began using Scrivener as a word processor some years ago and find it a nice way to organize not only the articles I write and research that goes into doing them, but my novels, as well.

It’s handy, well-designed and, most important for me, has methods of automatically backing up the data you put in.

For instance, I use it to store the original files not only on my internal hard drive, but have it back up the database on an external drive, too. This happens every time the program saves, and also when the program opens and closes.

It’s convenient, occurs in the background without me having to do a thing, and saves me a lot of time.

Google Docs for the win

I don’t use this one as much as I probably should, but I feel it’s a good option for those who may not have something like Scrivener or other word processing setup to help auto-backup the data.

You can use a different program to type things out originally, and then paste it into a Google doc, or just work directly within it. Everything stores in the cloud and, as long as you’re careful with your personal information, is about as safe as it can get.

Similarly, you can use Google Drive as a backup option within Scrivener to save directly to the Drive account.

It’s a win-win, really.

Personal website as a backup?

I’ve created a multitude of personal websites over the years and, while I don’t use as many of them today, I still have access to them through my hosting service.

I’ve always recommended authors have their own websites as one of the most effective marketing tools at their disposal, but they can be great as an off-the-cuff data backup, too.

You have access to the “rear end” of the website when you self-host and can easily upload any files through the user interface or FTP.

I’ve come to enjoy the idea of backing up my files on these back ends, because the only person who should have access to it is you (or your web designer) and it’s a reasonably safe way to store the files you don’t want anyone touching.

Image by AuthorEmail yourself a copy

Something most authors don’t think about when it comes to backing up their stories is to send a copy to themselves in an email.

Most text files are extremely small. You could fit an entire novel in a file smaller than the maximum file size limitation of an email provider, such as Yahoo or Gmail.

It’s easy to do, and as long as you name it something you can remember or relate to the file itself, it’s easy to find when and if you need it later.

Yahoo has been around for years, as has Google, and I don’t expect they will close soon. The emails you send yourself should be around for a while.

Something special for myself — the Freewrite

This option is personal to me, and is pretty expensive, but I have no regrets about it.

It’s a device called the Freewrite from a company called Astrohaus.

It’s essentially a Wi-Fi enabled electronic typewriter with an e-ink screen and is designed to be a distraction-free word processor.

You can’t edit with it, can’t connect to websites or Google or YouTube or any of the other options that we can use to distract ourselves from getting writing done.

What it does, however, is backs up every single keystroke you make to an external website (they call it Postbox), and with a key press, it will also send everything to an email address you provide.

It will also automatically copy to Dropbox, Google Docs, or Evernote, as well.

Now, this isn’t the only reason I got the thing (as I said, it’s rather lavish, running about $500), but it’s a big deal for me.

It also is a joy to type on and I have found my productivity is about 50% more than it was before I got it.

Should you do backups?

I think, as authors, we need to be a lot more conscientious about making sure anything we do is backed up in various ways.

The availability of backing up your data on the internet today is ridiculous, and there’s really no reason you shouldn’t make use of it.

Your words, after all, are your property, and neglecting them can lead to disasters.

What are you doing to make sure nothing happens?

If you would like to support Ira in his efforts to help feed his family, please consider becoming a member of Medium. A portion will be given to him at no extra cost to you, and you’ll not only be helping this blind man take care of his needs, you’ll also be supporting every other author on Medium, as well.  Please go here to begin your membership today !

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She’s terrible, but I love her. Image by Author

There I sat in my easy chair, surrounded by friends and family… never suspecting the evil thoughts going through the mind of the furry ball sitting across the room from me.

Never knowing that the revenge of a cat is a dish best served cold.

My memory flashes to earlier that day, as my pretty, long-haired, cat named Eva found herself in a spot of trouble. She had been out adventuring that morning, and got herself quite dirty in the process. Being the kind, loving owner I was, I decided she would need a nice, soapy bath. She complained, of course, but I was determined, and, a few minutes and 10 cuts later, she stood clean and griping at me about her lot in life.

Oh, little did I understand the plot already forming in her cat brain. Little did I know that when her plan came to fruition, I would be the one with embarrassment and humiliation.

A group gathered together at my house that evening, with pleasant conversation and good food. Quite nice, it was, with joy filling all of our hearts. But that would not last long, would it, dear, lovely, Eva?

No… there you lay, all innocently appearing to be asleep on the couch, while I sat across the room in my easy chair, surrounded by friends and family and nothing but happiness in my heart…

I was at that moment laughing about something or other, surely just an inane moment of levity, and you chose that moment, that moment of pure bliss, to strike. I remember the sudden surge of movement, the white streak as you flew across the room, literally bounding over three other people as you made your way to my lap.

Image by Author

There you stood, back legs upon mine, and your front legs upon my chest, and I remember looking down at you and smiling, the joy of my laugh still on my lips, as you then, swiftly, turned around and, literally inches away from my unsuspecting and innocent nose, loudly farted the worst cat fart that has ever occurred in the history of cats, before or since.

Oh, yes… the scent of cat food, with a hint of fish mixed in, aimed into my nostrils, and satisfied, you jumped down from my lap, walked nonchalantly across the room, lay back down in the exact spot you had been residing upon, and fell back asleep.

Did your dreams please you as the sound of my loving friends and family laughed at me for the next hour?

She’s horrible, but dang me, I still love her.

If you would like to support Ira in his efforts to help feed his family, please consider becoming a member of Medium. A portion will be given to him at no extra cost to you, and you’ll not only be helping this blind man take care of his needs, you’ll also be supporting every other author on Medium, as well. Please go here to begin your membership today!

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The Tale of the Tainted Tick — A True, but Fun, Story of Horror

The post My Cat’s a Jerk, but I Still Love Her appeared first on Original Worlds.

One day, when married to my second wife, I woke up while she was at work.

As one does for the morning constitutionals, I spent a few moments in the bathroom while waking up. And, well, I noticed something strange happening in a certain area one rarely feels sensations in. So, I used a finger to explore and felt a bump sort of thing.

I thought, “Oh, mayhap this is a pimple of some sort…” but I knew I needed to investigate…

I did the only logical thing… I laid on the bed with a mirror to look at the tainted area of darkness no one should ever peruse.

It was then I saw it was not a pimple. No, no, my friends. It was the horror of a tick, dug deep into my taint only millimeters away from that most sensitive area of a man.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in such a position, but let me tell you, my dear ones, I was scared. I had dealt many times in my life with a tick, but never one in this most precious of spaces.

This most… sacred of places.

I didn’t want to just yank it out because, well, f*ck getting lyme disease in my taint or something, right? So I did the only thing I could think to do.

I smoked at the time, so I took a lit cigarette and placed it close to the tick, in the hopes it would cause it to pull its head back and I could then grab it.

The tick did not release.

It gets worse from there.

So now, I not only had a tick in the taint, a space NO ONE should EVER have a tick, but now I also had burns from a cigarette being placed in that same location.

What to do next? WHAT TO DO NEXT?

I did the next logical step. This is a bug. A terrifying bug, but a bug nonetheless. What would work on that?

The bug spray hit my balls and at first, the cool sensation was… rather comforting in funny ways. However, rapidly, that cool comfort turned to disaster as the fury of hot lava and lament grabbed my senses in such a way I could no longer think straight.

Burning balls in hand, I tried to wash them off, but that just spread the spray everywhere else.

Oh god, the pain was real, and this thing was still not letting go.

And it gets worse from there…

So now I not only had the bug spray frying me, but the sensation only enhanced the already painful sensation of the cigarette burns in my taint. Oh god, it wracked my mind with incomprehension and pain as I grabbed the next nearest thing, hoping, PRAYING to all the gods in the pantheon that this TICK WOULD LET GO.

I grabbed the rubbing alcohol and threw that into the mix.

Dear ones, if you’ve never put rubbing alcohol in your taint after having hosed it down with bug spray and attempting to light it on fire with a cigarette, take the lesson from good ol’ Ira… Don’t do it.

Please… don’t do it.

It gets worse from there…

Now, bear in mind, I’m all alone here. My wife’s at work and I was not about to call an ambulance just to come rescue me from this evil, heinous creature that had grasped me with its tiny face and held on with all its might.

No. No. I decided I had to call someone else.

I called my mother-in-law.

See, she only lived 2 houses away from us, and I knew it’d be a fast trip for her to get there and help me get this tick off of me. Embarrassing as it was, I had to have help.

It was perhaps the hardest phone call I’ve ever had to make in my days, and, even these 25 years later, it haunts me in ways I cannot describe coherently.

Thankfully, the 20 minutes it took her to get to my house from hers 2 doors away (I assume because she could not stop laughing) was enough time left that the tick, whether through final engorgement or because it finally tired of its chaos, let go.

My friends, that tick died in flames and I think I heard it laugh even as it went unto its final rest.

I met my mother-in-law at the door to turn her away.

I think, in the end, the tick really did win this battle, though I was the only of us to survive.

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Untenable anger, fear, guilt… Circling around in a tornado of self-destruction and terror. (Image: myself)

When I snapped awake from unconsciousness, the first sight in my eyes was her face.

The pain was intense, ravaging through my head as the waves of dizziness spread from one side of my body to the other. I couldn’t think, could barely breathe, and, for a moment, couldn’t figure out why I was on the floor.

Then I remembered the frying pan, and the way it came crashing down on my head, held in the hand of the woman I thought I once loved.

It wasn’t until some years later, and a lot of tears, that I remembered the pancakes, the smell of them as they lay on the floor, burned and horrible looking (mixed with not a little of my blood, as well). The scent of them wafting in the air, that acrid tinge of oil cooked too long and too hot.

It wasn’t until, those some years later, I remembered it was me who was cooking those pancakes, and I messed them up, burning them to the point they would be inedible, and how she, in fury, took the frying pan — large, made of cast iron — and whacked me on top of my head for my ineptitude.

I was knocked out cold.

I didn’t realize until that later day, in fact, that the reason I can’t cook pancakes without crying and freaking out is because of that singular incident, when a person who claimed to care for me took her bad day out on my head and couldn’t care less if I were dead or alive as a result.

What I distinctly remember of that moment is the overwhelming and uncontrollable fear I had of this woman and the fierce anger in her eyes as the skillet, still in her hand, hovered inches away from my nose.

“Do it like that again, and I’ll kill you,” she said.

There were many more incidents in the five years I remained in her clutches. Some more “dramatic” and some just her taking her anger out on me by screaming at me for hours on end. Fear was my watchword, my mantra, my stability. It was all I knew, and all I cared to know, because I felt I deserved no less than what she was giving me.

After all, my dad did similar in the years he was a whiskey-drunk and angry. Why should my wife be no different?

I speak of these things not for sympathy. I desire none of that, nor pity for being involved in that kind of situation.

I’ve moved past that, and have found a wife who loves me for the me I am and has never, ever, dreamed of harming me in such a way. It’s not her nature.

I, in turn, love her with a fierceness the fires of a thousand suns could not match.

I’ve found happiness and, sometimes, in quiet moments when I don’t have to think about the past, peace with the lot in life I now have.

But that wasn’t ground swiftly gained, my friends. It took me years to even acknowledge I was a victim and, when I did finally escape the situation, it took me even more to begin to reveal what I went through.

And when I did?

I was not believed.

I am a man, after all, and it’s impossible for men to be victims of spousal abuse.

At least, that’s what I was told. Not just by one person, but everyone I tried to open up to about what happened to me in those years within her house.

Why didn’t you hit her back? You should have protected yourself!

That was asked by a “friend,” and I have to admit the thought crossed my mind. Many times.

I was also raised with the mentality that under no circumstances is a man to ever hit a woman. There is no justification for it, ever, and to do otherwise would broach a spiritual schism for me.

Besides, I reasoned, to evoke violence against violence is not a solution. It’s part of the problem.

Why didn’t you just leave?

Another good question.

Setting aside the fact I was working poor and barely scraping by, making the affordability of such a proposition difficult at best, there was something else, too.

Fear, the cancer that never stops growing, becomes like a close friend. It’s always there with you, holding you, keeping you “safe” and locked within. (Image: myself)

“If you ever leave me, I’ll f**king kill you.”

It was said off-handedly, and more than once, but I knew from her eyes how deadly serious she was.

She softened it, though, by adding in, “Nah, I love you too much to kill you. But I’ll break your f**king back so you can never walk out that door.”

With her physique, she could do it. Easily. And I had zero doubt she would.

There is another issue with just “leaving” that is difficult for men. It’s a hard, bitter pill to swallow, but it’s truth in the day and age we live in.

Ready for it? Here it is.

While there are many shelters for women affected by domestic violence and it’s an easier process to put protections in place once they do escape, there is nothing like that for men.

Oh, there are homeless shelters, rescue missions, and the like, but there are no safe spaces specifically designed for men who are victims of domestic violence in mind. Those homeless shelters and missions also come with their own set of problems that add to the conundrum “maleness” goes through in these situations.

That, my friends, is a real problem.

Why? Because I know I am not the only one who has gone through this, and the heartbreak is that most, like me, were stuck in it to the point of an untenable and unbreakable force keeping us shackled to the abuser through systemic issues.

The fact is men are statistically just as victimized as women when it comes to domestic violence. There is a slightly higher rate for women, but bear in mind with that statistic that it is damnably hard for men to talk about the issue and be believed.

We males know this, are taught it from the get-go by our elders. Keep everything bottled. it’s no one else’s business. It’s not something to talk about. Keep your house in order, keep your spouse in order, keep…

The cycle of self-destruction victims experience seems to never end. (Image: myself)

It goes on and on, this cycle of destructive teachings that males get in the toxic environments we are raised in. It’s self-destructive, it’s eating at the soul of males as a cancer, and it’s got to end.

Men have to be able to talk about their abuse. They have to be able to verbalize it’s happening to them, and society has to recognize, as a whole, it happens.

Please understand, none of this is to down-play the victimization that happens to women. That is in no way the intent with my story.

In fact, it’s the wholeness of understanding it happens regardless of gender, age, race or creed that will, perhaps, start to bring about real change to the world.

It has to start somewhere. Maybe that somewhere can be with you.

I was able to get away from my abuser, thankfully, and have begun, with a lot of help from someone who loves me, the process of healing from the wounds that are still so deep. I’ll probably, because of how trauma works, never really know the depths of those scars and bleeding sores, but that, too, is a part of the process.

But I know I am not the only one, and there are many out there who are waiting to speak, to know they will be heard when their voices to finally break free enough to tell their stories.

They, as women, need a safe place to be able to verbalize the fact they are in trouble and need rescue.

Please be the one to give them that help. Believe them when they speak. It was already hard enough for them to try.

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My Cat’s a Jerk, but I Still Love Her














The Tale of the Tainted Tick — A True, but Fun, Story of Horror

The post I am a Man. I am the Victim of Domestic Violence. appeared first on Original Worlds.

Hi folks!

For those of you unaware, I do stream my gameplay sessions often, and some of the games I play have been modded in different ways.

Most of the time, it’s to help facilitate my playing, since I am disabled due to blindness.  Often, the UI of games is difficult for me to traverse simply because I cannot see through the warped way my vision works well enough to function.

That’s where mods come in.

The following is a list of games I stream and the particular mod sets I use to enhance the enjoyment factor.

Don’t forget to subscribe to me over on YouTube, and hit the notification bell so you can be the first to know when I have something new for you!

Thanks, as always, for being awesome.

 

STREAMED GAMES PLAYLIST ON YOUTUBE

 

 

GAMES LIST

American Truck Simulator

Morgan Freeman GPS Voice packExtended Traffic Light TimingSiSL’s Trailer Pack USASiSL’s Mega PackDP’s Realistic Traffic RSTRealistic Vehicle LightsATS Real Logos ProjectEconomy Adjustments

 

Software Inc

Realistic Contract CompaniesRealistic CompaniesExpanse (A11) | Software, Hardware and MoreOE-O | Software Inc+ (A11) | Now with Hardware!iKO – Light

 

 

As I stream more games, I will add to the list of ones that I play modded.

 

The post Mod List for Games I Stream appeared first on Original Worlds.

 

Do you want RAVENOUS fans, who will be more likely to buy anything you put out?

OF COURSE YOU DO! We all do.

In this video, I am going to teach you how Newsletters can and DO make that happen. Learn the strategies I use to get readers to give me their information, and then what I DO once I have it!

These tips will make a BIG difference in your marketing strategy and turn people from ho-hum to GIVE ME MORE.

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The post Why You Need a Newsletter – Book Marketing Strategies and Tips for Authors – Newsletter Tips appeared first on Original Worlds.

 

This Song Made Me Cry (Again…)

You’ll find here a reaction, lyrical analysis and story breakdown for this amazing song. And yes. It made me cry. Again.

Why do I do this to myself? And on camera, of all things? *sigh*

Writer Reacts is a series of videos by author Ira Robinson, in which he reacts and delves deep into songs that tell stories. Some of the time, it’s to songs he’s never heard before.

 

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The post Devin Townsend Kingdom Reaction – Writer Reacts to Devin Townsend Kingdom EMGtv Live Performance appeared first on Original Worlds.

 

One old man, the apocalypse, and a whiskey bottle.

What happens when a mysterious buzz from beyond invades?

This horror audio drama is presented in Creepypasta / NoSleep style, with professional sound design and storytelling.

I am a huge fan of short stories, and creating worlds that can intrigue, fascinate and delight. Oh, and, of course, potentially creep you out. Kick back, relax, and enjoy the show.

The post Whiskey Dry – Audio Short Story – Creepypasta Nosleep Style Post Apocalyptic Humor appeared first on Original Worlds.