These women were a far cry from my overweight Latino undergrads in Target jeans. Their sandals looked new and expensive. One was probably a lawyer, another the head of an NGO, another a shrink. These women had money and time to explore their creative sides. I was worrying about my sixty-five bucks. The sweat trickled down my temples, collected between my breasts. I could feel my hair frizzing.

“What’s your discipline?” one of them asked.

“I’m a fiction instructor. I’m Diana,” I said, then added, “Wagman.”

“Oh right,” another responded. “You’re the screenwriter.”

It was the first time the screenwriter was said to me in that disparaging tone, but it would not be the last.

Fucking MFA programs. The students were arrogant because they had been accepted by this fancy program. They were also desperate to believe they had done the right thing—that being there would help them, change them, save them in some way. That very first evening, in the introductory meeting, I could smell it: the students’ raw desire, overpowering my own.