If Robert Frost were alive today, making reality television shows, it would be called Bread Loaf Writers' Conference.

For two weeks, I have been living amongst writers. New writers, established writers, famous writers, people who publish/edit/promote writers. Everywhere you turn on this mountain, people are having conversations about literature. Fiction, Poetry, NonFiction, NonPoetry. Clever contests abound, clustered into ochre colored buildings in the Vermont evergreens. We try to outwit each other, fondle each other's minds.

What interests me is the fact that these are people who write stories. Even the nonfiction people are weaving tales. Someone said to me last night, "We are a seekers of truth in a colony of liars."

It makes me understand how much my own persona is a product of my own creation. I am a woman who can survive on 2 hours of sleep a night and still manage to live as hard as possible.

And yet I am not.