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