IT COULD have been the first day of any Harvard creative writing class.

"I'm Dick Wordsworth," said the rugged, corduroyed, craftsmanlike writer-teacher. "Give your name, shoot your questions."

"My name's Charles Doorite," said a young man with half glasses and full smirk. "I've been working seriously with prose since I was five. Recently, I've become personally acquainted with many New York writers through my mother and internships at The Paris Review and The Atlantic. Kanopf is bringing out the first of my three completed novels next year."

"Do you have a question, Charlie?"

"Are the assignments graded?"

"No. I prefer to make arbitrary assessments at the end of the semester," said the professor, flashing a writerly grin into the chest of an Edwardian gown above a pair of purple hightops.

"My name's Betty Sue," said the young woman in the gown.

"What's your question, Betty Sue?"

"I can't compose one. I've had writer's block since I broke up with the drummer for Gary U.S. Bonds after the Cleveland concert."

SUDDENLY THE classroom door flew open. The tapping of a heel was heard. Then a tune: "I'm the type of guy, who likes to write a line/Yeah, I'm a writer/Ooh, ooh, a writer I write around, 'round, 'round, 'round..."

A black boot came through the door, then another, followed by the unmistakable odor of grease and grenadine. The black tweed jacket, the streak of slick-backed hair, the 10-pack of black, Bic ball-point pens. "Who is this kid?"

"I think he's cute."

"Yeah, but can he write?"

Professor Wordsworth didn't care to know. There was only room for one anti-academic-writer-type in his classroom. "What's your name, boy?"

"They call me Johnny Writer, sir."