Last night I went to a writers’ workshop for an hour of writing. I felt like I didn’t belong there—these were real writers, people who are working on things worthy of being called projects. They craft novels and essays and long-form journalism. I wish I could be like them. I was far too aware of how young and green and strange I am; we did a round of introductions and of course mine was pithy and my cheeks blushed pink. But then we worked for an hour on our own: It was time to write, and everyone faded away and it was just me and my fingers on keys. I didn’t have a set idea of what I wanted to work on, so I picked up bits and pieces of things I’ve been working on in a document I’ve titled Bad Writing, because I’m sure it is. Still, it was nice to sit for an hour, not distracted by anything, and try to string a few paltry words together. I only wonder if it will ever feel like I’m doing more than just playing at being a writer.