Welcome to the Blog

It's always best to start with introductions...

Congratulations! You've made it to the first post of the Monroe Art League's blog!

I'm going to cut to the chase here and tell you, if you're looking for FAQ's, how the blog works, or information in general about this website, you're gonna want to go to the second blog post, "Everything You Need To Know You Probably Learned in Art Class" here.

This first post I'm going to dedicate to my introduction as the League's webmaster and blog writer, because I can.

With that being said:

Hello! I'm Samantha Weatherholt, daughter of the (as of the writing of this post) League president, Eve Weatherholt. But please, call me Sami. Samantha's reserved for formal occasions, my parents to use when I've done something wrong, or my Uncle Jeff (he's only ever called me Samantha, and at this point, it feels weird to correct him). Plus it's a long name, and I can't tell you how many forms I've found awkward to fill out because my full, legal name is 22 letters long.

But anywhose,

I was born on June 5, 1991, on my parent's fourth wedding anniversary. I had bright red hair, a weakened immune system, and a messed-up sleep schedule.

I think this is why I've always been drawn to the creative arts. (Not my hair or immune system, but my messed-up sleep schedule. They say all creative people have a messed up sleep schedule.)

I've dabbled in various mediums over the years; I took a watercolors class in college, gone to many a Wine and Canvas event, and took up fleeting hobbies with clay, ducktape, jewelry making, sewing, coloring, customizing Funko Pops, scrapbooking, book binding, and decorating totes and jackets with fabric and puffy paints. I never really considered myself an artist, though, because I never could work in a traditional medium associated with "artist" and [ironically] don't have the patience to teach myself how to draw or paint to a point I could be satisfied with.

Instead, I've always been focused on the written word. I love to write. Mainly, I love to write fiction pieces, but I can write academically (my papers in college have been accepted to be presented at conferences; ranging from 5 to 30 pages), in journals, newspapers, emails, captions, copywriting, and blog posts (and now, websites!). I've graduated with two degrees that required a lot of writing; I also helped write an entire program of study for the daycare I used to work at. A fun fact about me is that I actually had my professors have to set a page limit on papers, because I would routinely write over their 3-4 page request. I guess you could say, then, that words are my medium. (And that I'm a bit of an overachiever.)

As a youth, I'd spend hours in front of a notebook, typewriter, or computer, furiously writing down the stories that would pop into my head. I was also an avid reader, and quickly realized that I wanted to be an author when I grew up. Writing was a release for me just as much as anything else--except I had complete control over every action, thought, conversation, and landscape. And that kind of power is intoxicating. Writing also couldn't bully me, and it provided me with an outlet of escape. I participated in the Young Authors program in Elementary school, and later on joined the Journalism club in Middle and High School to work on the Yearbook and School Newspaper. At the time I also kept up my writing outlet--and I still have several of the pieces I worked on during those times to this day.

After graduating, I decided to go to Eastern Michigan University specifically for their Creative Writing Program. I was hoping to hone my skills as a writer, and fulfill my dream of becoming an author.

Instead, my passion for writing fizzled out and I slowly began to despise the written word.

This was not because of the academic papers I had to write (though, they certain didn't help), but rather because the Creative Writing Program at Eastern shuns the traditional fiction writer ("they're sell-outs," I can still hear my one professor say) and instead focuses on new wave poetry, prose, and other unconvential ways of writing. I hated having to sacrific my interest in fiction writing to appease my professors, and even though I won their praises with my work, they didn't know that I was dying inside. I persisted, though, and graduated with my Major in Creative Writing. (My degree is a Bachelor of Science; B.S. for short. Which is appropriate, given what I did was learn how to BS my way through undergrad.) 

I even managed to make it through a year in their MFA program when I was accepted into Eastern's Masters program, before I couldn't take it anymore and switched to their Children's Literature program.

That program changed my life, however, and I finally found my people. I have several mentors now, whom I keep up with on a regular basis, who helped spark my other love--reading--into something I could soar with. I got to focus my energy writing and researching about children's media, adolencent books, and fairytales. And around people who bolstered my passions instead of striking them down.

I graduated in 2017 with my Masters of Art; several papers, conferences, and a creative project under my belt.

I survived, and I did so without completely being drained of passion.

After college I got a job at the Ellis Library & Reference Center, where I was able to allow myself to venture into enjoying my time instead of stressing about the next homework assignment or conference paper I had to write. I got to be creative again while there, too, and most importantly, learn to read for pleasure again. I stayed there for 5 years before landing my current work-from-home job at Leo Burnett, a Chicago/Detroit-based advertisement company, where I help project manage online advertisements for Buick and GMC.

While I enjoy doing what I do now, the change from working in the humanities all my life (both academically and career-wise) to business, and from home, has been difficult for me. I struggled with finding ways to get out of the house and socialize; to find motivation to create and find joy in hobbies, activities, and exercise. It took me a while, with some help from friends, family, my therapist, and Lexapro, but I've finally gotten into a place where I can find the motivation for happiness again. 

I take trips to art exhibits around Monroe, Toledo, Detroit, and Windsor. I'm a member of the Toledo Museum of Art and the DIA. I've joined Book Clubs for my favorite genres. I take myself to conventions, concerts, and plays (which I couldn't afford to do before on the budget of a broke college student and part-time library clerk) and enjoy talking with people of similar interests, meeting celebrities, hearing live music, and seeing brilliant performaces. I try to write a little bit everyday, whether it be in my journal or my latest piece of fan-fiction (I'll be going into fanfiction, and fandom in general, in a blog post later on). I also try to venture into new hobbies--video games, meditation, photography, fashion, and daily mental health walks that I enjoy documenting. Art has always been at the center of my world, and I'm thrilled to rediscover it again, but this time with a new appreciation and understanding of it. 

That's in part why I agreed to write the blog posts for the Monroe Art League's website. Any chance I get to practicing my writing is one I need to take. And I hope you all enjoy my posts. I tend to write in the same style I love to read--first person narrative--because it feels more like talking to a cherished friend about their experience instead of an omni-present narrator that knows all. 

That's about it for me. At least from a Charles Dickens style. If you really want to get to know me better, I'm always down for a conversation over coffee. I tend to be bubbly and bright--just like you'd imagine a preschool teacher to be--and I love to show that off in the way I dress, too. I have good days and bad days, and am a human being; I make mistakes. But like Ms. Frizzle before me, you've got to Take Chances, Make Mistakes, and Get Messy if you ever want to learn and create in this world!

I'll leave my introduction at that.

And, as a treat, I'll attach my favorite piece of short fiction that I've written, just because I think it's fair that you all get a sample of my artwork too.

Until next time--that's my story, and I'm sticking to it :)

"Murder Stained Hands"

by Sami Weatherholt

...

He silently walked down the hall and over to the elevator. He pressed the button marked up and listened to the gears of the large metal box fly down to meet him. The doors swung open, and he let out a sigh of relief.

           Daryl Durant was a large man, and he couldn’t really help the fact that he was claustrophobic. The elevator was small enough as it was; add three or four people, and well, he might just —

           “Good evening Durant,” Jeremy Kenton said, walking inside to stand next to him. He was shorter than Daryl (though, everyone was shorter compared to him), and always wore his tie at an angle. His shirt was wrinkled, and his pants had its crease line slightly skewed to the left. “You did talk to The Boss, didn’t you? He sounded really infuriated last night. Kept going on and on about some paper leaking out to the press…”

           Daryl cleared his throat, tightened his fist, and glared his eyes down on Jeremy’s head. “Where do you think I’m going now?” His voice was deep and one might even say it sounded villainous.

           “Oh, well then.” He stared up at the floor counter and watched as the numbers glowed in order.

           A bell inside the elevator dinged, and Jeremy let out a sigh.

           “Well, this is my stop. Hey, are you still up for going over to O’Malley’s after work?” He walked out of the elevator, but didn’t step outside all the way.

           Daryl nodded his head, and Jeremy stepped out of the way and let the elevator continue its trip upward.

           The metal box stopped suddenly; a dinging noise indicating its journey for Daryl was over. He stepped out and started walking toward the farthest door on the left.

           He was halfway there when his knees started to go weak. He groaned, and slunk down to the floor. He ran his hand across his head and leaned up against the wall.

           His mind drifted back to last night.

           Smoke clouded the bar; the smell of beer and potato chips lined the air. Daryl, along with some partners from work, sat at a table.

           His boss walked over to the table, a cigar in one hand, ash falling down to the greasy floor, and a Godfather drink in the other.

           Skip Corleone was a rather short man, being only five foot four or so, and had his black hair slicked up with grease. He wore a gray suit, his tie undone and the flower in his left hand pocket smashed. He was kind of pudgy, and when ever he smiled, he showed off his yellow teeth. Years of smoking showed in his face, and his breath forever smelled of gin and smoke.

           He sat down, setting the glass in front of him, and took one last drag of the cigar before smashing it out on the glass dish in the center of the round bar table.

           “Durant.” Skip said, crossing one of his legs over the other. Daryl looked up and immediately walked over to Skip. He hunched over and looked into the face of his boss.

           “Yeah, Boss?” He asked, his voice lighter than usual. Even though Daryl Durant was usually strong and frightening, he still was afraid of his boss.

           “You know Kasper Ripley fairly well, don’t you?” Skip reached over and took a sip from his drink.

           “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do, Boss. Why do you want to know?” Daryl hunched over more, trying to hear what his boss was saying to him over the loud and rather annoying bar music.

           “He’s been working on that Cure for Cancer Project for quite some time now. In fact, I believe he’s done with it.” He set the glass down and looked up at Daryl.

           “He is Boss?” Daryl questioned, looking over at the glass of Scotch and amaretto. He didn’t like looking directly into the beady eyes of his boss. He almost felt like he was looking into the eyes of Satan himself.

           “Yes, I believe he is. I need to get that paper, Durant. If I don’t have that paper, I won’t be able to charge any money for the development of the stuff. I need that money, Durant. If that paper were to get leaked out to the press, well then, I’d really be screwed now, wouldn’t I, Durant? You see, that paper is the sole reason I even hired Ripley in the first place. He was the one claiming to have the cure for cancer figured out, and all he needed was the money to complete it all.

           “You know what he said to me Durant? He said ‘I swear to you, Mr. Corleone, all I need is enough money to buy a couple of elements, and I’ll have that cure for you in a jiffy.’ That’s a direct quote too, Durant.

           “Now, the only problem is that at the time he said this to me, I had all sorts of money. So I lent it to him, and what do you know? I’m almost out of money. That paper’s going to make me rich again, Durant. And so I need to get it back. That’s where you come in, Durant.” Skip stuck another cigar in his mouth and lit it. He took a deep drag, let out the smoke in his mouth, and looked up at Daryl.

           “What am I going to do, Boss?” Daryl said, again, looking away from his boss’s eyes.

           “I need someone strong, someone intimidating, someone like you, to go get that paper from him. And I need it by midnight tomorrow. Got that?” He took another long drag on his cigar before letting out another cloud of smoke.

           “I’ve got it boss. It’s just, what if he, you know, doesn’t give it to me?” Daryl looked over at the group of people entering the bar.

           “If he doesn’t cooperate, then just use force. And if he still doesn’t cooperate, use this.” Skip pulled out a gun from inside his jacket pocket.

           Daryl stared down at the gun, afraid to take it. “But Boss, that’ll kill him. Kasper Ripley has a daughter — ”

           “I don’t give a damn what he has.” Skip interrupted, sitting up in his chair. “If he doesn’t give you that God forsaken paper, then you kill him. But don’t leave any evidence. I don’t want any more trouble with the cops. Got it, Durant?” Skip took one last drag on the cigar before putting it out.

           “Y-yes, Boss. I got it.”

           Daryl stood back up and continued walking down to the farthest door on the left.

           He placed one of his meaty hands on the wooden door and rapped on it. The door opened, and out stepped Kasper Ripley.

“What can I do you for, Durant?” Kasper smiled and stepped aside to let him in.

“I need that paper, Ripley.” Daryl didn’t smile. He stared directly into Kasper, trying to intimidate him.

“I don’t have it here — it’s at home, and I’m sure that my daughter wouldn’t want you disturbing her. I could bring it to you on Monday, if that’s all right.” Kasper half smiled, and walked back over to his desk. He didn’t sit down though.

“You don’t understand Ripley. I need that paper. If I don’t get it, then it could be turned in and get leaked out to the wrong people. The Boss doesn’t want that, and I don’t want that. So, Ripley, the paper?” Daryl walked forward, stretching out his hand.

Kasper looked from his hand to his face, and back to his hand.

“I told you Durant. I do not have the paper with me. If you want to wait until Monday — ”

“Damn it Ripley! I hate to do this…” Daryl started to walk around Kasper’s desk. He tightened his hand into a fist as he got closer.

Kasper noticed the curled up hands and quickly grabbed something on his desk. Daryl didn’t see it, and thought that it was a key of some kind. He didn’t care. It wasn’t a key that he was after. He tightened his grip and walked forward.

“One last chance, Ripley. The paper?” Daryl’s voice darkened.

“I already told you. It’s at home. You’ll just have to wait until — ”

Daryl picked up Kasper and threw him across the room. Glass shattered and covered both him and the floor.

The fight continued, Daryl at an advantage. Each time Kasper Ripley tried to fight back, Daryl just pushed him back down, causing more things to shatter, and more blood to ooze out of Kasper.

The fight eventually lead out of the room, and over to the stairway. Daryl was surprised at how much Kasper could take. He threw punch after punch, and still, Kasper got up after each one. He was also surprised by the fact that no one heard all the noise that they were making. He was waiting for someone, anyone, to show up, scream bloody murder and call for the police. But, no one showed up. He shook the thought out of his head, and continued to beat Kasper Ripley.

The stairway door was smashed open, and Daryl once again picked him up and threw him down the cement stairs. He rolled down each one, his head smacking each step. Blood stained the walls, stairs, even the hand rail. Daryl was careful to step over the blood puddles, making sure to not cause tracks.

They both reached the end of the stairway, Daryl perfectly fine, while Kasper, on the other hand, not so much.

His face was so black and blue that you could barely see one of his eyes. Blood seeped out from each direction, causing it to look like some preschooler had just dumped a bucket of red paint over his head. His body was scraped; his clothes tattered and ripped.

Daryl gave a wicked grin and pulled out the gun that his boss had given him. His hand trembled a little, but none the less, he cocked the gun.

“One final chance. Either tell me where the paper is, or your life comes to an end.” He aimed the gun at Kasper Ripley’s head.

“No.”

The trigger was pulled, and Kasper Ripley’s decrepit body hit the floor with a Thud.