She was so far from famous that an internet search of her name yielded next to nothing. Lucia had long brown hair, bright blue eyes, an oxygen tank that was by her side wherever she went, and a back curved with scoliosis so severe a rib once punctured her lung. I walked in and sat among a dozen or so other students at high school–style desks arranged in a circle. Her fiction workshop was held in the dilapidated English building in an obscure classroom whose door was hidden in a stairwell. She was a generous teacher and a brilliant writer who, at sixty-one, had not yet received the acclaim she deserved. I met Lucia Berlin when I was a twenty-two-year-old graduate student at the University of Colorado in Boulder.
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