Jess Walter came in to read for us today. Before he took the podium our program manager told us, the people who showed up, that yes, in fact, Friday seminars are mandatory, they’re a class, and if you don’t show up, you’ll fail. There was a light turn out. And then the studio manager came up to tell us the toilet wasn’t the best. And she hemmed and hawed, scared to say what she needed to say. Double flush that bitch, I thought. Nothing works here.

But Jess was fucking awesome. He’s written a novel about 9-11. The Zero. He was at the zero shortly after it became the zero. He told us of going home, driving his car back from the airport, seeing a sign, “American is united, new furniture coming in everyday” and having to pull over. Because it’s hard to drive when you can’t see through your tears. “Is this what we’re going to make of that?” You’ll remember Bush told us to go shopping after 9-11, even as he was preparing to send us, well our military anyway, to war. (I saw a picture recently on some website or another. It was from Iraq. From a Marine base or camp there. Blurry in the background a group of men in desert uniforms went about their day, getting ready to be killed or kill. In the foreground, on a white wall next to an empty doorway, spray painted in black scrawls: “The Marines are at war. America is at the mall.”)

I expected to hear the same self serving drivel I’ve heard at every reading I’ve attended. But this Jess. This Jess. Jess told us, an MFA program, that MFAs are useless. That, although, there’s a lot to be said about being around other writers and getting their feedback, none of it is real. He taught at some MFA program. Told us he wasn’t invited back because he kept telling his class to drop out. “Writers aren’t a community,” he told us. “Sure, it’s great to get feedback, to be surrounded by other writers. But let’s face it. We’d slit each other’s throat for the $25 from Story magazine. Writers aren’t pack animals.” We’re lone hyenas coming out during the black of night to scavenge what we can from a carcass. And then running back to our cave to eat. Alone.