A Job! Huzzah!

Once again I find myself apologizing for the extended silence that has plagued the blog over the past month. What with my work as a freelance journalist for Worcester Magazine and my job search, I have been quite swamped of late. I am happy to report, however, that this particular iteration of stress has now ended: I have a job! I will be beginning employment as an Associate Technical Editor for RSA, the security division of EMC, a software company on October 4th. I'm very excited. My qualifications have finally come through for me, and I'm also happy to note that this blog played a part in my success. The hiring committee for the position took a look at the various musings that I have been posting here and decided to forgo the writing test that is usually a requirement in the application process based on my work in these pages. Thank you, Internet. Anyway, this is meant to serve as the explanation for my hiatus and to let you readers know that I am back in the proverbial saddle and that more posts will follow soon. I've got a few stories that I want to get going, so you will hopefully see those up here relatively quickly. Thanks for the patience.

A Short Story: Comprehension

Let me first begin this post with a thousand apologies for the atrociously extended hiatus that has afflicted the blog over the past two weeks or so. There has been a large amount of uproar in my life of late, what with job applications and moving to new environs and all of those wonderful, time-consuming activities. Now, permit me to cut through the noise of everyday life and return to the art that soothes away the many stressors that grate upon the human conscience: writing.

The story with which I am about to present you is one that I recently dusted off and reread. It deals mainly with human relations on a global scale and is told through the lens of an outsider, an alien observer who has sat for many years patiently observing the works of the human species. I hope that you enjoy it. The piece is entitled "Comprehension."

All species share a connection. Their collective minds shout out into the Great Void. Each planet cries out, "We are alive; we breathe; we feel." No part is separate. All have a place, a purpose, a meaning that many minds define.
Not I.

I am separate, alone, drifting from brightness to brightness amid the endless stars. Endless. Such a strange word. Implying eternal expansion, unending vastness. It is in fact the wrong word, yet you who hear my recounting require it. The fortitude needed to fathom the truth of the matter exists only in those of my species, and I am the last of them.

So there is an end. An end to stars, to space, to all you comprehend. Suffice it to say that should you reach it, and I believe after ten thousand of your years' worth of study that you shall, you will be the first of the Young Ones to do so. I have seen many of my kind pass over the Edge of Endless, flying out into the Beyond, but as you say in one of your many, many expressions, I am "getting ahead of myself." Perhaps I should start from the beginning, or at least the beginning as far as your species is concerned.

Your histories and sciences tell you enough of your evolution and the events that brought your planet into existence. I shall not elaborate further on these points. I have seen the process a thousand times upon a thousand. There is never a great deal of variation. Stars grow and die, along with the planets that they spawn; such is the order of our Universe. You are not unique in that respect, but do not despair. Your physical sameness belies an inner distinctiveness that I have never perceived in any of the other worlds that I have tracked. For this reason I have lingered a full five thousand years beyond my time. You see, you are the last hope. Your race must take up the mantle that mine will soon let fall.

From your dawning, you displayed a heightened awareness. You knew, however instinctually or unconsciously, that there was something beyond yourselves, something greater, a governing force giving meaning to your existence. I have done my best to foster this sensibility in you. I cannot articulate the excitement that ripped like fire through my veins the first time I reached out to you and you felt me. None ever had before. To hear a mind respond again, to feel waves of awakening comprehension…it was a thrill I had not known since the last of my kind passed beyond the Edge.

The other Young Ones I observed never sensed me. Their minds were too concerned with bending the world beneath them to their wills. It was disheartening to see all the species look down at their feet instead of up to the heavens, all failing to realize their potential. All but one. All but you. When I saw this, I began to shape you, to lead you toward the path you must now follow. I admit that my method of teaching has had some adverse effects, but that could not be avoided.

I have tested you, warping your fates, changing probabilities against you, forcing you to ascend above ever-increasing adversity. Always you managed to surprise me with your responses. While none of my manipulations have proceeded as foreseen, all have driven you toward the knowledge I am now imparting. Granted, there have been conflicts, some of horrific magnitude. I would watch saddened as you tore into each other with the same tenacity that you used to overcome my obstacles. These conflicts are solely my responsibility, and I beg your forgiveness for them. Had I but realized the unique power I was trying to mold, I would have approached this situation differently.

You understood that there were other worlds beyond yours, yes. You reached up to tug on the hem of the sky's jeweled robe and ask your questions. Little did I know how many questions you would have, or how many ways you could find to interpret what answers you gained. Myriad explanations for all manner of phenomena began to filter through your ranks as your awareness increased. Ideas and speculations gained form and substance and soon walked unaided, forming the constructs you call "religions." I believe that these creations show with striking accuracy your progress toward the goals that I have tried to instill in you.

You began with somewhat elementary beliefs, equating the different natural processes of your planet and the surrounding galaxy with spiritual figures of great power. Your pantheons grew to encompass all that you encountered. Though you only had the most rudimentary understanding of the Universe, you always left room for the sky in your equations. Whether it rained lightning bolts upon you from a seat on Mount Olympus or comforted you with the warm rays of a flaming chariot, you never turned your eyes from what was above, what you sensed was so vital, so transcendent in its magnitude. You conquered your planet as well, classifying the lower life forms given you by "gods" for your sustenance and progress. Soon you developed your sciences, your theories that explained in more concrete terms what you saw, felt, smelled, heard, tasted around you.

This led to a narrowing of your focus. The old "gods" passed away. Natural phenomena were now within your reach. It was the celestial that continued to baffle and amaze you. "Gods" became "God," a being residing above your planet somewhere within the seemingly infinite cosmos who gave you direction. Science soon elaborated on your understanding of the heavens as well, giving you the ability to see into space, to map your solar system, to view other planets and stars, supernovas, black holes, and all manner of vast, cataclysmic happenings above you. Your findings suggested an order to things that extended even to the stars. This reinforced in some of you the belief that "God" had created all of it according to some massive schematic that "He" devised in the far past. For others, science became deity and "God" faded. Both groups had the same passion, the same need to know, to delve and explore. You wished to meet your "God" face to face, or to disprove that entity's existence altogether. This need drove you ever further heavenward, pulling the veil back farther and with more insistence. Only one obstacle remained: the great, nagging "how."

I was ecstatic on the day you achieved space travel. The little point of light that blossomed toward me, pushing ever upward through your atmosphere, confirmed that all my efforts were not in vain. You ventured further, setting foot on your Moon, planting your flags, looking ever outward, searching the void for the answers to those many questions of yours. This year, upon the successful establishment of the Moon Colony, I decided that the time had come to contact you directly. You stand on the giddying brink of more discoveries than you can possibly grasp. You have trained your eyes and scopes and probes toward the Great Beyond, but an obstacle remains. There is one conflict left to be resolved: the massive threat coming not from the Beyond but from within your own ranks.

I mentioned earlier the unique construct called religion that your race devised. Overwhelming numbers of you have put your faith in a staggering plethora of different doctrines and dogmas. These "cosmic sensibilities" evolved greatly over the years, and now only two remain. In the west of your world reigns Christianity, while in the east Islam has firm control. Such similar belief structures, and yet you manage to find so many reasons why they cannot coexist. The battle lines are drawn across your entire planet, and barring the kind of "spiritual" intervention that both sides claim to monopolize, you will destroy yourselves before your true calling is fulfilled. To enlist another of your quaint phrases, "you want it, you got it." I am your intervention. I do not wish all my effort to go to waste, so I am establishing this direct communication with you in order to relate some of the truths of the Universe before you continue making up your own until destruction becomes imminent. The first may come as a shock, but I promise I will explain.

There is no "God." Well, at least not anymore.

The figure you refer to in your mythologies passed over the Edge long ago, before my people were even a sentient race. Little is known of the Maker, who drew all the myriad materials out of chaos and into order, but it did not spring from nothingness in a spontaneous burst of consciousness as you maintain your "God" did. Instead, it came over the Edge into a place that had no life or shape to speak of and bestowed upon it a gift. It is said the Maker gave the First Maintainer his orders directly, but there is no way of confirming this. I am the Ninetieth Maintainer, the last of a long line of entities who have helped to spin the fate of this Universe and to hold its fabric together. It is my hope that you will not simply become another set of Maintainers. I believe that your potential is far too great for that simple task. In fact, I am confident that your species marks the next step, the first of the Evolvers. You will link all the peoples in this vast Universe together. There will be conflict of course, but you have dealt with your share of that. The survival of all of existence as we know it depends on your ability to take up this task.

My time grows short. I will aid you as long as I can, but soon I must go to seek my own people and leave you to your own devices. I implore you, in light of this new knowledge that I am sending, put aside your foolish bickering. Your religion is trivial in comparison with the magnitude of your mission. Find oneness in the cause with which I charge you. If you cannot, all is lost. Keep your faith, but remove your prejudice and dogmatism. Put your faith where it really belongs: in the Universe itself.

I have always been flattered that you found some way to include me in all of your belief systems. It was the surest sign that you felt me and that you could one day carry out your purpose. I apologize for the fact that, due to the nature of my approach in shaping your species, I always appeared as an adversarial figure in your various theologies. This was the only way to truly drive you to the point that you have now reached. My challenges have made you strong, and I hope that you will take up the cause for which your race is destined. Goodbye, my Evolvers, my children. As a token of my affection, I sign this letter with one of the many names that you have given me over the years. Go forth, and unify the stars.

With All My Love,

Lucifer

Moving Out

At the end of this week, I will be moving back to Worcester, the land of my collegiate triumphs and struggles. Now, some of the uninitiated are somewhat put off by the "dubious" ambiance of this particular urban locale, but that's just because they haven't yet taken the time to scratch beneath the veneer and discover what the place truly has to offer.

You see, as my friend with whom I shall soon be living and I discussed thoroughly last evening, Worcester is a place with personality. It is the perfect setting for a noir film, somewhat dark and down on its luck but full of vibrancy and living spirit despite the grays in which it is initially painted. Like those brilliant blasts of color that appear in flashes and moments throughout the movie Sin City, Worcester continually surprises me with its unexpected displays of beauty.

Now, when I say "beauty," I know I must qualify my meaning in this instance as it is, like so many other words, drastically imprecise. If I am to use it, I must chain it to other terms and create a web of association. Beauty in Worcester is the man known to many Clarkies as Mr. Fantastic, aka the owner of Fantastic Pizza. Every day, his distinctive ponytail of wavy gray hair can be seen bobbing behind a load of pizza boxes as he delivers edible happiness to students and professors alike. It's not just the food that makes him special, though. It's the tangible wave of joy that he exudes as he moves through the campus walks and city streets. He loves every minute of what he does, and it shows. There's no better way of ensuring brand loyalty than that.

For instance, one winter day myself and one of my friends were picking up several pizzas for a presentation that we were giving on one of Clark's Study Abroad programs. As we began to pack up and leave the shop after paying, Mr. Fantastic asked us where we were headed. When we answered the UC, Clark's university center, he smiled.

"Come on, I give you a ride," he said. "I deliver to Sackler anyway."

That was the day that I had the pleasure of riding in the famous pizzamobile, and it was a unique chance to have a glimpse into the world of one of the most talked about non-student individuals on campus. The kindness of the act itself had astounded me. Never in my life had I even remotely thought that receiving a ride from the person who generally is found delivering something to you was even possible, but in his world it was. It didn't matter that he was doing something for which he would normally be paid for free. His mission in that moment became to deliver us as well as our pizzas safely.

This is a more abstract idea of the kind of beauty that I see in Worcester, but there are more concrete visual examples as well, for all those more conventional types out there. For example, the brightly colored triple decker houses, constructions unique to the region (pictured right). These abodes line the streets surrounding Clark and are home to students and residents alike. My new apartment will be in one such triple decker, a pink and white one a few blocks from campus.

In addition to the houses, Worcester is home to some unique historical attractions as well, such as the Higgins Armory. The building in which it resides is an appropriate grey with metal detail work, resembling the knightly artifacts contained within its walls (see left). It is a place that transports the visitor through the ages. Between the reenactments, sword fighting classes, and of course the exhibits, you might as well be in a mead hall as in the middle of a metropolis. It is just another facet of Worcester's personality: a healthy respect for tradition fused with a forward-looking perspective bent on pushing for a brighter future.

There are many more aspects of the city worth noting. It is full of parks, concert halls, train stations, towers, and churches. However, I can only present you with echoes. In order to understand as truly as is possible, with your own senses, you must visit one day for yourself and see why Worcester has become one of the places that I proudly call home.

Once I Have Money...

The milieu of post-education existence has taught me something very important: I need more hobbies. Now that I'm no longer struggling late into the night over essays and reading a thousand pages or more of literature per week, there is a great quantity of space in my schedule that previously did not exist. Faced with the boundless possibility of such an absence, I have decided that once I secure a proper, steady source of funding I shall return to a pastime that once gave me a great sense of accomplishment and pleasure: Warhammer 40,000.

For those who at this point are thinking something akin to "but, uh, that's like a nerd thing, right?" I would merely say that, while I proudly wave the flag of nerddom, 40k has much more to offer partakers than simply a zone in which to interact with wonderfully eccentric individuals. It is more than just a strategy game. It is, in fact, a form of creative expression that crosses the boundaries between literature and visual art.

Let me give you some examples. As someone well-versed in the Warhammerly arts, the first point of importance that I would like to impart to you is that every single person who plays the game has chosen their army not only for the "cool factor" or for the weapons/strategic advantages offered by that particular race, but also for the story that that specific army inspires them to create. Whether it's a crew of burly Orks braving the perils of the Galaxy in search of "Mo' Dakka," a platoon of stalwart Imperial Guardsmen defending Humanity from the daemons of the Warp, or a Tyranid Hive Fleet seeking to devour planets and assimilate more biological forms into the Hive Mind, each is the unique creation of a mind at play. The universe that Games Workshop has built around the game's various armies provides a template, but it is up to each player to carve out their own space in this vast universe and to find the location where their carefully crafted group of characters reside in the great scheme of things.

That's right, I'm submitting a hypothesis to the Council; Warhammer 40k is about stories. Sure, it's also about moving models on a board into advantageous positions, but the spark that catches so many minds and fuels so many of the fierce debates that I've overheard between those loyal to different "regimes," shall we say, is the game's strategic deployment of a weapon more potent than any Land Raider or Fire Prism: imagination. It makes no difference whether someone has simply signed on with a group that already has a preexisting background in 40k canon or goes through all the trouble of creating their own Space Marine Chapter down to the symbols painted on their shoulder pads. The bottom line is that the people who play the game love their armies and invest not only the efforts of assembly and painting into their models, but also pieces of their inner selves, the pieces that put light in their eyes and grins in the corners of their mouths.

Of course, painting and modeling are components of the game just as artistically legitimate as the concoction of the army's "fluff," the term with which many running in the, ahem, "nerd," circles refer to background stories. The quantities of time and patience required to put any sort of decent color scheme on models that are oftentimes shorter in height than my pinky finger (see the approximately to-scale image of a Space Marine at right) are absolutely tremendous. However, as you can see by the several images I've posted (blown up to show details), die-hard Warhammerers remain undaunted and produce some absolutely stunning miniatures.

I hope that these images speak for themselves. After all, images can be argued as another set of symbols that have some linguistic meaning in a system and that connect to and resonate with certain words and concepts. Anyway, the point is that these models are every bit as artistically valid as a sculpture or a painting. As a matter of fact, they're both, and breathing life into what was once a hunk of plastic or metal is yet another way in which 40k players create their own personal sector of the Galaxy.

Now that I've described the various merits of Warhammer 40k in general, I'm going to give a brief personal history of my own encounters with this inspiring universe. When I first started playing, I decided that the Chaos Marines were the army for me. You see, I had a much larger quantity of angst back in those days, and since I had recently decided after a typical eighth-grade-style perusal of the various musical aesthetics available to me that Metal was my favorite genre (it still is, by the way, though my tastes have grown a bit more sophisticated), I thought that an army full of daemons and genetically enhanced super soldiers covered in spikes (see right) was right up my alley. With this thought galvanizing me forward, I set to work inventing my Legion: the Ravagers, a sub-army of the World Eaters created at the behest of their Primarch, Angron. The reason for their founding was to reward Angron's star pupil, a Chaos Lord named Azroth the Deathbringer, my star creation. I painstakingly picked out every bit of his wargear, every color, and every personality trait, and finally placing him on the field and experiencing the admiration of my peers was one of the most fulfilling extracurricular experiences that I've had. Though he was somewhat typical, a rebellious, irreverent, harsh, and ruthless commander, I loved Azroth because he was mine. I still love him. I love the idea of him, the fact that my mind was able to leap from the platform that Warhammer gave it and ascend into the great heights of fantasy.

Nowadays, I've reined in my angstiness a tad, and as a result the forces of Chaos just don't hold the same appeal that they used to. I find them to be too one-dimensional, too concerned with mere destruction. For my return to the Warhammer universe, I needed something a bit more inspirational. I found that source in the Space Wolves, a Chapter of Space Marines whose ideology is diametrically opposed to the army I previously played. They are defenders, not antagonists, of humanity, and that offers me a host of character building options that I had no access to when I played Chaos. There's a tangible motivation present around which I can erect myriad conflicts and personalities. Come to think of it, personality is basically the Space Wolves' middle name. They're boisterous, noisy future-Vikings who cruise around the Galaxy seeking to commit acts that will get their names written into the heroic Sagas of their Chapter. With my predilection for Norse mythology, I just couldn't resist.

The creative juices are flowing, and I've already drawn up several different army lists and have put together my own Wolf Lord, Varg Dirgehowler. I will post pictures of the army as it develops, though depending on the capricious whims of the job market that may be a short or a long time from now. The Saga of the Sorrowhunters is just beginning, and I can tell that I will have many more adventures to relate as the synapses fire in my brain and new, wonderful connections are made. I hope that after reading this you feel somewhat enlightened in regards to the Warhammer 40k universe. If you have any questions or are interested in getting started/picking an army, post a comment and I'd be happy to give any advice that I can.

I Swear to God I Can Copywrite

Despite the fact that I've worked as an Independent Label Relations Intern for iTunes, one of the most successfully marketed electronic media services in the world, potential employers have a hard time believing that I know how to write ad copy. This is my own fault, I suppose, since in my infinite wisdom as I was writing those new release blurbs and launch materials for the pan-European Metal genre page, it never occurred to me to email one of the aforementioned items to myself or to take a screenshot of one of my stylish and sophisticated works of genius live and in action. Such is life. The point of this recollection of a past foible is that I am sure that were I to receive gainful employment in the area of copywriting or copyediting, I would do an admirable job, but since I lack evidence, the job market quite often hangs me out to dry. Therefore, I propose a solution: playing pretend.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to flex that imagination muscle. What I'm going to do is write several pieces of short copy for fictional companies. What you're going to do (hopefully) is tell me whether or not after reading said short copy you feel quite convinced or if you're more, as good old Captain Barbossa would put it, "disinclined to acquiesce" to my request. Is that copacetic? I hope so.

Number One - Bob Jones Coffee

The sharp fragrance of fresh-ground beans. The warmth on your hands as you lift the steaming cup. If this says "morning" to you, then the best morning you could possibly find includes Bob Jones Coffee. Our delectable blends of the finest free-trade coffee beans from around the globe will stimulate your senses with their subtle scents, bold flavors, and distinctive finishes. Pick up a bag today at your nearest Trader Phil's or online at bobjonesbeans.com. Bob Jones Coffee: waking up the world, one cup at a time.

Number Two - Weird Bird Books

Challenging. An adjective referring to something that stimulates interest or provokes thought. Here at Weird Bird Books, we take this word seriously. Our authors are the mavericks, the free-thinkers, and the envelope pushers in their disciplines. We wouldn't have it any other way. If you've been searching for texts that will put you in dialogue with the most controversial, perspective-expanding subjects of our time, then look no further. You've found a home at Weird Bird Books. Check out our list of authors online at weirdbird.com and start flying against the wind.

Number Three - Riot! Promotions

Would you like a webpage that's targeted, relevant, and rockin'? How about a commercial that always stands up in the mosh pit? Riot! Promotions has got you covered. We bring the attitude, power, and passion of a rock concert to everything that we do. If your band or label is sick of seeing its sales get trampled, give us a call at 333-666-9999 or visit us at riotrox.com. We'll have you crowd surfing in no time.

Well, I hope you've enjoyed reading these blurbs as much as I enjoyed writing them. If anybody reading would like me to take a swing at composing some stunning verbiage for their honest-to-god-real-life company, I'd be absolutely champing at the bit to give it a try. Contact me via email if such an offer puts a spring in your step. Keep resonating, everyone.

Starting Points

This being my first entry, I suppose I should take a moment to explain the title of this blog space. As I began the creation process leading to the finished page that you see before you, I was pondering how I would catch the eye of the casual browser while also instilling a sense of myself in the reader as the words on the page ignited neural pathways to forge new associations. Somewhat calculated, I know, but I can't help that I decided to take a class in marketing once upon a time. To my mind, tracing a path of verbal connections seemed the most efficient method for accomplishing such a feat, so with that in mind (Derrida would be proud) I selected two words that had pieces of my name's meaning in them. Vorpal, as many of you know from a certain poem by Lewis Carroll (or perhaps from perusing a D&D manual or two), refers to something of profound sharpness, a trait that it shares in common with Keen, my first name. Of course that begs the question: what's the deal with rooster? Fear not, an explanation is forthcoming. One of the words that we English speakers failed to import from Germany was the word for rooster, which happens to be "Hahn" (with a capital; Germans like their nouns with capitals) and also happens to be my last name. There, now that's over with. Feel enlightened? I hope so.

Once again in the spirit of beginnings, I think it appropriate that I discuss the most tangible motivating factor that spurred me into the endeavor of honing my skill with this indeterminate and often unwieldy discipline called writing. The source of this motivation can be traced back to a single individual: Bill Tapply. Some of you may recognize the name; during his life, Bill was quite a proficient mystery novelist with a total of thirty-one fictional works to his name along with twelve non-fiction titles, numerous articles, and The Elements of Mystery Fiction, a guide for would-be writers of his genre. More importantly than all of that, however, as he would have said himself, he was a teacher; in fact, that was his initial career before he turned to writing. Luckily for myself and countless other students in Clark University's English Department, he never lost his passion for imparting his accumulated wisdom to aspiring authors. As Writer in Residence at Clark from 1995 until 2009, he served as an unbounded inspirational force clothed in an exterior of calm and modesty that belied the inferno of intellect and skill that lived within him.

The first class that I had with Bill was in the 2007 fall semester. I had been trying my darnedest to get into his creative writing workshop since freshman year, and my Junior class rank finally permitted me to make it in before the course filled entirely. On the first day, I ascended the narrow, winding stairs leading to the second floor of the Carriage House (pictured right) and stepped into a long, rectangular room dominated by dark wood furnishing and a massive seminar table at which numerous chairs stood at attention. The early afternoon sun filtered through the large windows set in three of the room's walls, transfixing dust flecks as they meandered across the air currents. It felt like a writing room, like a place where one of those old dusty New England intellectuals would consult an old dusty tome before pulling out an elaborate quill pen and scrawling down something of great importance.

When Bill entered the room, I had to admit that he fit the part I'd just been imagining. A hefty helping of gray hair; a beard; glasses; a collared flannel shirt and jeans; he was New England through and through. Despite this matching of expectations, however, I was still quite nervous. This tall, silent, and somewhat imposing man would be evaluating whether or not I had what it took to succeed as a writer, and though by sheer coincidence I had pinned his appearance down, I had no idea what personality type would accompany it. Bill didn't do much to allay these anxieties at first. He just sat at the head of the table as the rest of the class filtered in looking, well, downright surly would be just about accurate. He waited for us to settle in, then slowly stood and began to speak. That was when everything changed.

He had a deep, quiet voice that was absolutely made for reading things aloud, as we came to find out in the ensuing weeks. He welcomed us to the class, then turned to the wipe board behind his chair and began writing some bullet points. Over his shoulder, he said, "Write this stuff down. Then you can say you learned something today. That is how you students are supposed to measure what you've learned, right? By how full your notebooks are?" A small smile crept into the corner of his mouth.

This flash of humor caught me completely off-guard, and it was the first in a string of moments that would endear Bill Tapply to me for the rest of my academic career. You see, in addition to being a brilliant critic of fictional prose, Bill was very invested in remaining a "real person." Each class was filled with a smattering of anecdotes and words of wisdom accumulated from his experiences that often taught us just as much as the formal lesson of the day or the conversations that we had after someone's work had just been read aloud. These colorful comments put his personhood on display; they pulled him down from the lofty seat of "professor" and made him into something much more grounded and compelling: a friend. Here is a list of some Bill-isms for your enjoyment:

"I hate mowing the lawn, so whenever I do it I buy myself a six-pack of beer. I place the beers at strategic locations across the lawn, and whenever I reach one, I stop and have a drink. Writing can be like that sometimes. You just need to give yourself a little motivation."

"I don't want any of that David Copperfield crap. I don't care where your character grew up or who his mommy was or what his favorite childhood toy was unless it's relevant to the story. Write about what he wants now and why, not every tiny detail of his past."

"When in doubt, kill somebody."

"Sex is good! Violence is good. They create conflict. Now, I'm not saying you have to go blowing up buildings every other page, but a little tension never hurts."

(Upon learning that one of the students in our class was a Biology major) "Excellent! You're not crippled like all these English majors who overthink themselves trying to insert symbolism and whatnot into their stories."

(Commenting as I handed in an assignment after having noted my predilection for Science Fiction stories) "So, what've we got this week? Is it aliens, spaceships, or lizardpeople?"

These are just a few of the many choice quotations to which Bill treated us. His advice always came in such a way that it didn't feel like advice at all, but rather the voice of an experienced traveler making an observation about one of the many roads he'd seen. During his life Bill encountered a great many roads, and whether they led to a tranquil stream full of fish eager to bite his handmade flies (an art learned from his father), a dust- and sunbeam-coated classroom full of nervous students, or a bustling publishing office full of scrambling editors, he always took a piece of each experience with him and turned it in the light, holding it just so, revealing something mistaken for a dirty stone to be a sparkling gem. That was his mission: to make each ordinary, everyday moment feel as though it were the highest of revelations. I may write Science Fiction, but without this crucial lesson I could never have made the connections to common life that become even more vital in a universe set outside the "normal" parameters of reality. Bill made my words speak for the first time, and I am eternally grateful to him.

Bill Tapply died of leukemia on July 28th, 2009. I was in Luxembourg doing an internship at iTunes' European headquarters at the time. There was a party going on that night at the student apartment house in which I was staying, and I had stepped into my room to quickly check my email when I got the news. Everything stopped. I didn't even notice that I was crying until I saw tears splatter on my keyboard. Utter disbelief was my first reaction, followed quickly by an aching in my gut that spread outward to resolve in a prickling on the backs of my hands. After my muscles unfroze, the only action that occurred to me was to visit his website. I just wanted to hear even an echo of his voice again, something that would give me any sort of connection to what I had so suddenly lost. I had been meaning to send him an email with the newest chapter of my novel, but with the fast-paced environment at my internship and the process of adjusting to a foreign country, I hadn't yet gotten around to it. Regret about that decision will always haunt me.

It's been nearly a year now, but every time I write, every time I read, I think of Bill. Over the course of only three classes, he touched my life and changed my art in a profound way. I'm always, always going to miss him. I hope with all my heart that he's still fishing somewhere.

I am in the process of writing a short story to commemorate Bill's life. It's my own special retelling of the memories that I have of his memorial service in Hancock, New Hampshire, the town in which he lived and wrote. I will post it when I'm satisfied that it's ready to see the light of day. If anyone who reads this has any memories of Bill that they would like to share, please feel free to post them.

Hopefully this introduction has been adequate. Soon, I'm sure, this page will be filled with stories, tidbits, and scholarly debates. Thank you for reading and may you all find inspiration in every tiny moment.

In Memoriam:

Bill Tapply, 1940-2009