Several long years ago – before I lived where I live now, before I’d very questionably attempted bangs for the first time, before I wondered if that one guy could possibly be worth it – the first day of a new semester arrived and, with it, three brand spanking new classes.  I have long loved what I do for a living – I see it as spreading the slasher and possession film gospel to the masses – but I have never been able to make myself love the day when the Fall semester officially turns into the Spring semester and it’s probably because a freezing day in February feels nothing like the springtime and because what it all really means is that I have to learn the names of eighty-something new students just when I’d finally figured out which kid was Peter and which kid was Steven in one of the classes that is now no longer a part of my daily schedule.

Change is not my favorite constant in the world, but I can usually roll (or at least hop along) with the punches that come with things being different, but the Name Thing has always been an issue for me.  Even when I’m writing fiction, I tend to use the same names over and over again.  It’s not even that I love those names; I just can, for some reason, remember them – and isn’t that what’s most important?  Okay, it’s totally not what’s most important, but at least it’s helpful because otherwise I end up naming every guy character I create Mike.