Driving deep into the woods of Western Massachusetts last July, I caught a glimpse of glowing wildgrass wedged between a field of slim tree trunks and felt that I’d arrived at a turning point in my life. The wheels of my heavy suitcase crunched against the gravel of the Simon’s Rock campus as I waved goodbye to my parents; and there, introducing myself to my redhead roommate dressed in pink, I stepped foot into one of the most transformative three weeks of my life. It seems impossible, perhaps, to describe a life-altering experience in any amount of words, but if there was one thing I learned from the Young Writer’s Workshop, it was the writer’s ability to contain infinities in mere sonnets. Why else, other than the feeling of having made timeless the flickering heat of their heart and imagination, does one pick up a pen and write?