William Everett

Biography

William Everett carries the quiet weight of a man between chapters in his life. In his early 50s, he has the thoughtful eyes of someone who’s spent a lifetime reading, teaching, and gently correcting students without bruising their egos. His hair is mostly gray now, matched by a neatly trimmed beard that gives him the distinguished look of a man who once took pride in faculty photos. He wears glasses when he reads—which is often—and tends to fidget with them when he’s thinking.

He dresses in a blend of comfort and tradition: casual button-down shirts, corduroy slacks, and a well-worn tweed jacket that smells faintly of old books and coffee. There’s a bit of extra weight around his midsection, the product of too many years behind a lectern, but he still carries himself with a certain presence—more from habit than pride.

Recently retired from his post as an English professor, William has come to the retreat not to rest, but to begin again. University politics wore him down, and after decades of teaching other people how to write, he wants—finally—to try for himself. This is his first attempt at a novel, and though he’d never admit it, he’s more intimidated by the process than he expected.

He doesn’t speak much during the group conversations, but when he does, it’s with clarity and old-school charm. He’s not the type to interrupt. Not the type to stir drama. He’d rather sit quietly, sipping tea, taking notes in longhand with an old fountain pen. Most of the guests see him as the safe one—the stable, reasonable elder of the group.

But there’s something William hides, even from himself: the fear that his best years are behind him, and that the story inside him might never make it to the page.