Not so new on that list of things is living in student housing. There are twelve of us to a kitchen, and the smell is already somewhat reminiscent of New York's Chinatown in high summer. The bathroom floor is dotted with tubs of soaking laundry, and the floors are stickier than the Union bar at closing time. And classes haven't even started.
There are about thirty other prose people in the program - the UEA's Masters of Creative Writing - and those I've met so far are wonderfully affable. The first day or so was spent primarily on congratulating each other on having gotten in and swapping stories of naysaying advisors and family members who still think this writing thing is "just a phase," after which we began to communally abuse our livers and wonder how the program will go. It's a relief to find that I am not the youngest, least experienced, or most horrified by the reputation I will be expected to live up to, but what is more of a relief is how easy my course mates are to talk to. We always get back to writing, or reading, or writing and reading one way or another, and for the first time in my life, at least, it seems that I can talk about what I enjoy most without watching for that glazed look or being advised to write romance. Even if I learn nothing from the professors - and from reading Henry Sutton's work, I should at the very least learn how to pitch pornography as high literature - being surrounded by people that speak my language will be worth putting off life for a year. And apparently, there's also free food involved.
