Approximately a month ago I spent two weeks at the New York State Summer Writer's Workshop. I recently graduated college with a minor in creative writing, and will be attending Graduate school in the fall for English and writing, but I had spent six months at a terrible job and thought, "I really need to do something." A good friend of mine was admitted into the program, so I applied, got into the highest class, and paid in full.

When the two weeks ended (or the week and a half, I left early in a disgruntled funk), I had taken away not a lesson in craft, or writing, or even in being a writer. Rather, I learned that writers are laughable. Let me explain.

Rick Moody was the visiting writer who taught the class I was in. He came in the first day wearing a track jacket, a very loose tank top, jeans, and Converse. I notice shoes, and I noticed his, as well as everyone else's flipflops, Doc Martins, and respective sneakers. I remember thinking to myself, "Converse, huh, that's pretty cool. He looks cool in those."

Gradually, as the week went on, I noticed that more and more of my fellow students began wearing Converse. Rick Moody noticed too, but instead of laughing at their meager attempts to be like him (not that I would really expect anyone to do that...outloud), he had a conversation with them about which Converse they like best. I watched in silent amazement at what was occurring before me.

Another occurence which I believe bears mentioning was the cliques that gradually formed in this classroom. By the end of week two, there was an MFA corner. This was where all those twenty-somethings who had gone to Brown undergraduate and attended the MFA program at NYU congregated and sneered at the rest of us. They spoke in haughty, ridiculous voices, and whispered to one another while the rest of us workshopped a story. But what was most interesting was how the people who sat just to the right of the MFA corner would try to laugh their way into the group. When the MFA corner made a joke that none of the rest of us understood, the wannabee's would laugh too, leaning in close and glancing hopefully around the rest of the room for looks of yearning, oh we wish we could be them. (Not everyone with an MFA was in this corner either, there was one man who I commend for his incredible writing and beautiful personality who sat next to me the whole time).

I suppose it was during these two weeks that I realized writers are people too, but not just in that cliche way I just stated. Young writers, like myself, are just as prone to being pathetic, to forming little cliques in the classroom, to scowling just because you used the wrong word in a sentence. I guess before these two weeks I expected that all writers, when they meet other writers, are genuine, friendly, and welcoming. While some are, there are also the body of writers who are just plain silly, and just don't realize it.