William S. Black

William S. Black

Born: October 14, 1953. Age: 57

Hair color: Blond, but starting to be more white than blond. He wears the classic cut, but a little longer around his ears and collar, just not touching the collar.

Eye color: faded blue, like old, worn jeans.

Build: He was an athlete in school, and has kept his physique up through the years through running and swimming. He is very trim and fit for his age. Average height, about 5'10.

Job: Collage professor at Dartmouth University in Hanover, New Hampshire. He teaches American History and is the Chairman of the History Department.

Most admirable action: Every year he hosts a marathon to raise money for a scholarship for underprivileged kids.

Least admirable action: He thinks that most women are stupid and shouldn't be in the collegiate situations. So he always grades women harder, and since he is the Chairman of the History Department, he blocks women from promotions within his department.

Greatest fear: Being buried alive.

Greatest desire: To be the Dean of History Dept. and maybe have a Hall named after him.

Darkest Desire: To have complete dominations over someone. Almost to the point of a kidnapper, with someone tied in his basement, totally dependent on him.

One Sentence: Carpe Diem

Things that would drive him to tears: News that his beloved father or estranged brother had died.

Things that would drive him to murder: Power. Either in work or over another person.

　

Enthusiastic- Every Saturday he organizes a run with students that want to better their grades. They must keep up with him, and be able to answer the questions he poses.

Dependable- Every Monday and Wednesday at 5:15 am, William walks into the school's pool and swims his 100 laps. Then at 8:00 am, he opens his office for students with questions or who need extra tutoring. At 12:35, exactly, he eats his lunch at the same table in the teachers lounge overlooking the quad. Then every evening at 6:30 he walks to his tidy bungalow just off campus

Gifted- William always tested in the top 2 percentile on everything he did, but what really made him gifted was his charisma. Unlike other highly intelligent people, he could talk and relate to others. In fact, he could charm the devil if he wanted. He made people feel at ease and included in every situation, never made them uneasy with his intelligence, and told stories that had everyone laughing so hard they cried.

Studious-William ran a 2 hour study group in the library every week for those who wanted his help. He has 2 Doctorate's and was working on his 3rd. He writes for the school paper as a advisor, and consults with various T.V. shows and movies needing advice on American History.

Exacting- His classes were the hardest in the History Department. He worked hard on his lectures and expected his students to work just as hard. He didn't accept typos, spelling or grammar errors; they were in collage and there were word processing programs after all. Although he was tough, he wasn't heartless. If a student showed he was putting in the work, but still struggling, he would make exceptions with the grading.

New Character Profile 1

I number and label these posts as if we will ever have more than one.  In the past, this has not worked so well, but we'll see.  Maybe this time we'll get something going... or maybe not.  Oh, well.  That's what this blog is for, right?  Messing around.  Maybe you can title the next blog with the name you choose for this character.

Here it is:  Your character is a male.  His 5 most prominent qualities are that he is:

1. Enthusiastic
2. Dependable
3. Gifted (hmmm. you can decide in which way)
4. Studious (maybe's he's in college.  Maybe he goes to Harvard even)
5. Exacting (this seems to be a flaw.  The dictionary definition of this is  "tryingly or unremittingly severe in making demands")


So, to get a better idea of how these traits define him, write a few sentences about each one, and how they are specific to him.  Or whatever.


Should that be all you do for now?  No, you need to pick a name and stuff.  So answer as many of these next questions as you feel like, I can answer the rest if you want because this exercise can get pretty time consuming, so you decide.


1. Name:
2. Age:
3. Color hair/eyes:
4. Build/weight/height:
5. Job:
6. Most admirable action:
7. Least admirable action:
8. Greatest Fear:
9. Greatest desire:
10. Darkest secret:
11. One sentence philosophy on life:
12. Things that would drive this character to tears:
13. Things that would drive this character to murder:
14. How would he react to:
      Getting in trouble:
      Danger:


The next step, one I particularly love in getting to know a character, is (after you answer all these questions and already have a pretty good idea) listen to a random song on your ipod and imagine it relating to your character in some way.  Maybe it describes him.  Maybe he's singing it on stage at a bar or something.  Maybe it captures his emotional state.  Regardless, you decide how or why that song matters to him.

Things That Annoy Me Thursday

It annoys me when people use the word "literally" wrong, though I admit that I have done this before.  (Do you ever just annoy yourself?)  For your information, people of the world, the word actually means the opposite of "figuratively".  However, you all (okay, and sometimes me) seem to want to use it as a way to exaggerate, thus losing its true and wonderful meaning somewhere along the way.  And this is the reason it bothers me; the word is such a powerful one when used correctly.  For example, if you say someone was literally laying down on the job, you better mean that that person was horizontal.  You know what? Robert Pattinson does this a lot.  Go listen to one of his interviews and if you watch for it (it's not hard), it will start driving you crazy too.  Literally.  (Sorry.)

Rule Number Seven

I really do believe that you can't grow as a writer unless you grow as a person.  And some of us just have further to go, ok?  For example, take the fact that I am extremely inflexible.  My days are scheduled out in such a way that if someone asks me to go to lunch, I have to say, "I'm sorry.  I can't.  I have to write my blog."  Now, on the one hand, this has given me a large measure of self discipline... but, balance in all things, right? I have now figured out how this is handicapping my story.

It comes down to killing your darlings.  Do you think a person that can not drop a blogging appointment with herself to go to lunch can kill her darlings?  Seriously, who knows what I gave up in my life to write all that darling stuff in the first place.  A date out to lunch, to be sure.  It feels a lot like opening a drain and just letting a portion of your life flow down it.  Sounds very depressing, eh?  Yeah, I thought so too.  Until I figured something out.  We are in a learning process, and the opposite of rule number seven is also true.  As we write, we grow as a person.

I have more motivation than ever to learn to be more flexible, because you just can't write good books when you are unwilling to bend.  I need to treat both life and writing more like clay and less like glass.  It's better when you look at it as something that can come undone and re-molded better than it was the first time. Be willing to change everything if necessary.  It's easy.  Or this is what I try telling myself.

I will say this: I have learned never to spend 20 minutes picking the right word again, unless you are very sure it's the final draft.

Progressive Story 3

As I approached, someone grabbed me from behind.  I was already nervous so I instantly screamed, but it was muffled... his hand was covering my mouth.  I couldn't turn my head to see what the perp looked like because he held me with his arm clamped around my forehead and against his armpit.  It smelled of Old Spice deodorant, and I could tell just by the feel of it that he was wearing a suit.  Who were these people?

"You can't kill me!"  I tried to yell into his hand, but it was no use.  Before I knew it, I was being dragged down the walk and around the corner.  This was a nice neighborhood, where was everyone?  Why wasn't somebody standing outside watering their grass and witnessing this so they could call the police?  Stupid urban people.

The man kicked open the cellar door with a shiny black shoe and threw me in.  I fell several feet and landed on a dirt floor.  The door slammed shut above my head before I could see what the man looked like and everything was dark around me.  I was surrounded by the overpowering scent of stale dead things (or what I imagined stale dead things might smell like) and the faint aroma of turpentine, or something like that.  Maybe gasoline.

And that's when a light came on in the distance.

Writing Prompt

I thought of a cool writing prompt.
What if one day you woke up and everyone in the whole world was just gone. No sign of what happened to them. And the world was just the same, everything in it's place, just the people missing. What would you do? How would you react to waking up to no family, friends, anyone? How would you survive, would you look for people, or just do what you always wanted to do?
Let me know what you think.

Progressive Story 2

After an hour of watching Lacey entertaining me I picked her up, gave her a bath and then tucked her into bed, reading her a bedtime story, twice.
Then I decided that I was going to snoop a little. I went into Bill's office and turned on his computer. He couldn't be stupid enough to leave anything on their joint email account, but I knew he had another email. I looked through his deleted browser history and found he had a Yahoo email. He must of had it on "remember me" because I didn't even have to log on.
There were tons of emails back on forth between Bill and the "Hussy" as I think of her in my mind. The were meeting tonight, of course. But the tone of her email made me shudder, something was wrong with this woman. I could picture her dressed all in black, with dyed black hair and red lips.
She told him that after tonight, his life as he knew it would be over, that tonight was his re-birth. And then they would have their life together.
What was Bill doing? Why would he even talk to someone like this? Was he really running off with this woman?
They were meeting at a old home up in the Avenues, only 15 min from here.
I wrote down the address and turned off the computer just before Jill got home. She had been helping at the Young Women's Banquet tonight. I wanted to say something to her, I felt like I was an accomplice by omission. I said goodbye as fast as I could without being rude, but the longer I was with her the harder it was not to just blurt out "Your husband is having an affair right now!"
I hurried out to my car and away from her in record time. Without even thinking of it, I was driving to the address in the Avenues. I needed to see what my brother was getting himself into. Thoughts of cults or murderers or even devil worshipers crossed my mind on the 15 min. drive across the valley. I hardly saw the other cars on the road, I was auto pilot, blindly following the stoplights and road signs. Then I was weaving through the tree lined winding roads. There were cute bungalow's and historic homes nestled together, the stately trees towering over everything. All the yards were well tended, flowers blooming everywhere, overflowing their beds. It was such a lovely place, not the kind of place that I would picture a cult setting up shop, but you never know.
I found the right house number and pulled to a stop in front. It looked like every other house on the block. It was a brick bungalow with a deep porch. I could see a couple chairs and potted flowers next to the door. The yard was well cared for, not a weed to be seen. The light was on in the large picture window that made up the front of the house, but the shades were drawn. I could see light in the back of the house, maybe coming from the kitchen. I wanted to just sneak around the back and see what I could see. But how would I explain that if my brother happened to see me.
Oh, hi brother. I thought you might be being sacrificed to some pagan god tonight, so I was just peeking in the windows to make sure you're alright?! Yeah, that would go over so well.
Taking a deep breath I got out of the car and started up the rosemary lined walk to the front door.

Writing... with a side of candied potatoes

Sometimes I try to write like I am following a recipe.  And why not?  It works very well for food.  But, as I have discovered, not so much for writing.  My point being, with writing, the more you realize there is no right way to do it, the better off you are.  Following a recipe is not creative or playful. Creation is about play, about discovering who you are.  How can another person tell you anything about that?

Okay.  I should say that all of these deep thoughts are inspired by The Artist’s Way, which I just got through reading. I have so many new insights as a result, that if I could, I would share them with the world.  

On a side note, which is probably a topic for another blog, sometimes I am afraid because, in the process of self-discovery, I realize that my imagination is often sparked by things of a dark nature.  Why is that?  I don’t want to pretend, so instead, I discover that I just might be bad.  But that’s what writing is all about, right?  Tell the truth, Stephen King always said.  

To play is to discover and you can’t discover without exploring.  Creative energy is God’s energy, and sometimes He lets us tap into a bit of it.  I believe that’s what play is.

There are no rules, and we must make mistakes as part of the process.  All work, all writing, no matter how bad, comes to good because it equals growth.  Growth of you, of your inner child who would like very much to come out and play, thank you, and of discovery.

I use my imagination more after reading that book, even when I’m not writing.  It’s like my senses have been turned up a notch and the world is mine.  The warm pavement under my bare feet, and the way it contrasts with the cool, wet grass.  The warm spring breeze.  Even cooking has become a process of creation and discovery.  Everything has been made to be a little more like play.  Sometimes I feel too full of all of these senses and all I can do to release them is to write.

“Man is asked to make of himself what he is supposed to become to fulfill his destiny.”  

-Paul Tillich

Progressive Story 1

I have a fun challenge for you.  What if we start a progressive story… I just did a writing exercise from that box you gave me where I started with three random sentences and let it take me wherever it may.  And this is what I got.  What I thought would be fun is if you add to it, however much you want, and we keep it going for a while.  If you want to try any idea generators, there are tons online if you do a google search and one I kind of liked is at shortstoryideas.herb.me.uk/

Ok, so here it is:

I love the way she said balloon.  She said it as if she were blowing bubbles.  

You see, I’m babysitting for my big brother.  He’s five years older than me, but we’ve always been really close.  Though we’ve always been close, that’s not to say I’ve ever babysat his two year old Lacie before, and I was slightly terrified at the prospect.  They’ve never left Lacie.  (Overprotective parents.)  And all I can think is, they must be pretty desperate tonight.

Or he must be.

Nevertheless, my fears seem to have been unfounded, at least as far as it concerns Lacie.  She’s a chatterbox--talking is what she does.  Most of what she says makes no sense at all, but she doesn’t seem to mind how little I understand.  I only understood balloon because she made a wide gesture with her hands as she pronounced the word, lips forming a huge O.

I’m just glad she’s content to stand here and talk while I sit on the couch thinking about...  well, not about balloons.  I’m grateful I don’t have to put on a show, as I feared.  Or tell jokes, or dance, or otherwise entertain.  It’s the other way around--hmmm. I never would have guessed.

It’s a good thing too, because as I said, my thoughts are elsewhere.  My thoughts are on the last words my brother spoke to me on the phone earlier today.  These were the words:  “I cheated on my wife.  And it wasn’t the first time.”

Now, all I can think of as Lacie stands before me making funny faces, oinking, pulling on her piggy tails, turning upside down with her head on the floor and sticking both fingers up her nose, is poor Lacie.  How can my brother do that to her?  And he didn’t sound sorry at all.  In fact, he sounded a lot like he was going to go prowling the town tonight, looking for some woman, never mind that his wife was with him.

It was the tear in her dress that first set him off, he said.  He’d been out somewhere (obviously not with his wife since they’ve never left Lacie before), and he saw a woman walking by with a tear in her dress.  I guess that tear was in a place that caused his imagination to run a little wild.  He got her phone number and they’ve been corresponding ever since.  Same woman.

But this is what’s really weird.  He has her wear the same dress each time he sees her, with a different new tear in it every time.  If that’s not bizarre, then I don’t know what is.  And he admitted all of this as if it was just great stuff.  Like I said, we’ve always been close, and he’s never even remotely acted like this before.

Something is wrong… and I’m determined to find out what it is.

Ode to My Friend Karyn (sorry it's a bit sappy)

I am reading this book right now that is about best friends and it follows them through their lives. It is kind of a good book, it's getting better, but the last few chapters have really struck me. Reading about their friendship made me so grateful that I have a wonderful friend like you.
There was a passage that made me cry (just a little though)
"That was the thing about friends. Like sisters and mothers, they could piss you off and make you cry and break your heart, but in the end, when the chips are down, they were there, making you laugh even in you darkest hours."
I think of how many times I have been down, and just talking and giggling with you changed my whole day, and made me see the sunny side again. I think back on our friendship and of all the fun times we've had, and the hours that we have spent on the phone. Talking about nothing; like what we were eating and what the texture of that food was. Or the the deep and life changing things, like our religion, kids, husbands and just how we view this crazy world.
I am always so relived when you say that you have the same thought and think the same odd thoughts. When I am having one of those days where I think that I am the only one who has ever felt this way or thought some crazy thing, and when I tell you, you say "Me Too!" I love hearing that "me too". I know that even when you don't think the same way as me, you always listen, never tell me it's wrong, just try to see where I'm coming from. I love that I can just let out the real me, without any sensors (although sometimes you might wish that I do sensor some of the things that come out of my mouth) and I know you won't judge or talk badly about me to someone else. When we go out and no matter what we do I always have the most fun I could have. We might annoy other people, but I think they are all just jealous that they aren't having as much fun as we are.
I have always cherished our friendship. I never thought I would have such a close female friend, but reading this book has made me realize what a rare and wonderful thing it is to have a Best Friend. I picture us living in some old folks home, ages and wrinkled, maybe a little senile, but still laughing and talking.
Thanks for being my friend, I am so lucky to know you, and even more lucky to call you Friend.

Green

I am green.  I am vivacious light and energy.  I am the brightest spring and the darkest night.  I am an endless forest, and I’m the tinkling sound of a stream parting through it.  I am grass on a summer day. I am energy trapped and made brighter by the want of release.  I am more than my composite parts.  I am synergy.  I am the color of a new life, a secret life.  I am the color of imagination.  I am a thrill, an adventure.  I am a fairyland mist, cool and sprightly; I sparkle with effervescence.  I am moss in a meadow, a childhood blanket.  I am promises yet to be revealed.  I am whispered secrets of things to come.  Pleasant things.  Lucky things.  Happy things.  Magical things.  I am night and day together, an abyss.  I am a hideaway.  I am at once both rest and verve.  I feel serene.  I am a rushing river held in a wink, a knowing smile, a sparkling radiance, an Olympic rain.  A wonderland.  I am your favorite place to hide from the world, your secret treasure.  Your imaginary friend.  I am green.   

Feeling like I'm in the club

Today we set up a trampoline. We bought it Saturday but the huge amounts of snow prevented us from setting it up, much to Jake's dismay. So when Adam got home this afternoon we spent an hour setting it up, and then the kids jumped on it until dark.
I stood in my kitchen looking out the window at my 3 kids jumping on our brand new trampoline, and I felt like I joined the middle class.
Like us buying a tramp officially puts us into the Middle Class.
I feel like we are living the American dream, that we have a checklist for being the "perfect" middle class, white family living in the burbs. On that list there is; have 2.5 kids, own 2 cars, own your own 4 bedroom 2 bath home with the small patch of green grass filled with swing sets, sandboxes and various kid toys. Have the small garden, basketball hoop, and flowerbeds filled with petunias. Also on that list is making sure you keep fit, look nice and make cookies when your kids get home from school. Go out to the movies and dinner, take your kids to Chucky Cheese and Disneyland.
And make sure your own a trampoline.
So now I have become one of the Stepford Wives, although I am fighting the mold with my rock music, vampires and Stephen King and my love of sarcasm.
I hope I don't get a mini van soon.

My Amazing Musical Skills

I know that this post is silly and lame, but that is what we are aiming for, right?
So, lately I have been thinking that I should learn a new instrument, and I am leaning toward the drums or the guitar.
Now, let me start off with saying that although I can play the piano and the violin, I can't play either of them well.
Every 6 months or so I decide that I should start practicing one of them and become so good that I could just sit down and amaze people, which is most of the reason to play an instrument, to amaze people right? Anyway, what always happens is that I will play everyday for a week or two and start getting a little better at it, then all my enthusiasm fails, and my playing dwindles down to every other day, then once a week then to just looking at the piano telling myself how good I could be if I just practice, and so the cycle continues.
So when I think about learning a new instrument, I have all this knowledge of how I REALLY am, but I tell myself lies.
I tell myself that if I have a new instrument I will be so excited to learn it that I will play all the time(which is such a lie. It would be so hard that I would probably get frustrated and give up within a week) and I think that I would take a guitar with me when we go camping and play around the campfire (which is another lie. I don't really know any campfire songs, and if I did, I probably wouldn't want to lug a guitar camping just for a few minutes around the campfire). If I learned the drums, I could rock out and maybe, just maybe be asked to join a band and travel around the world with my drums (I don't even need to explain this lie).
Now one the downside to both, at lease the one downside that I will admit, is that they both would cost money, and it would really be selfish to spend all that on me, when I could have my kids do it. And I already have a whole bunch of lies I could tell myself about them.
Maybe they will join a band :)

A Lesson From a Tampon

Okay, first I must apologize for the very simplistic metaphor, but that's just the way they come to me.  Now, to explain it:

I don't like to follow the rules.  If someone says I should write a story some way, I really don't think I should.  But the problem is, I always do.  Dang, why is that?  Don't I trust my own instincts?

And that is the whole purpose of this blog, according to me and my dear friend.  Because we like breaking rules.  On purpose.

What does this have to do with a tampon?  Lots.  You see, every time I go to open one, I look at the stupid plastic package that covers the slender stick.  Every time.  Which way are the arrows facing?  Which way is it properly opened?  Well, guess what?  I hate opening them the way the arrows say I should, and yet I look, every time.

It's the wrong end, people!  Isn't it far more logical to open it on the end you will actually hold?  Okay, sorry.  Making an effort not to get too carried away and/or graphic here.

My point is this:  Are we not all like that a little bit?  Do we sometimes have to make a conscious effort to ignore rules?  I'm really not saying rules are bad.  I believe most are, in fact, helpful (even if I haven't figured out how those blasted arrows are yet).  However, I like to take every rule with a large grain of salt, heck a whole bag of it is better.  Because, isn't having fun the point of writing?

Every day I ask myself again, why did I start this, this writing stuff?  To have fun!!!!!!!  (Over-use of exclamation points.)

It was definitely not to follow rules.