We had an author come visit our classroom today. He writes fantasy books, a genre wildly popular with middle school students, and he was able to converse freely about trolls, wizards, and dark magic. It made me happy to see the kids so enthusiastic, but it was as if they were speaking some foreign language. I stood there, nodding politely, but utterly clueless.

          Then one of my students told the visiting author that I was a writer, too. After he finished his presentation to the class, he started talking to me in Writerese, a language I hadn’t used in over a year, but it came back to me instantly, and in no time, words like “literary agent” and “royalties” were rolling off my tongue.

          We’d only been talking for a couple of minutes when he left for another presentation in another classroom. I felt a fleeting impulse to grab his tweed jacket and plead, take me with you, can’t you see, I am one of you. I could taste the luxury of mornings in front of my computer, reflecting, writing, editing. But then two students came up to me and started describing their Halloween costumes and I slid back into place, my regret fading faster than the visiting author’s tweed jacket retreating down the hall. I’m not sure if this is progress, or resignation.