My nonfiction creative writing class took place from 6 until 9 p.m. in one of those underground rooms with big, mocking windows, where you have to look up to see people’s feet. In my old East Side days, such joints were called “garden apartments” because they didn’t think the word “basement” was refined enough for real estate. So there I was in my “garden classroom.” I’d never taught this course before — not this version of it, anyway. I knew I wouldn’t be ambivalent. I would love it — or I’d never want to teach it again.

Now, at the term’s end, I’m not sure if I want to teach it again but not for any of the reasons I imagined.

What I wonder is this: Will any other group of creative-writing graduate students be this interesting, this smart, or this much fun again?

The only class that’s ever been this good was another creative nonfiction group, undergrads, from a couple of years ago.

I (almost) always enjoy my classes, but this bunch was off the charts. I had too much enthusiasm when faced with reading their weekly essays. I enjoyed them too thoroughly.

I was inspired way too much.

Every week they e-mailed me — along with the rest of their colleagues in the course — their assignment: 750 to 1,500 words, comic or serious, with an eye towards reworking each piece for publication. They wrote on various topics I’d announce each week, giving them three days to complete the work.

I’d read their essays over lunch, gobbling them up with a piece of pizza and a diet soda, and later those nights sit down to make my own deadlines. It was as if I wrote better because I’d just read their essays.

Maybe it was the pack mentality kicking in: We were writing together like a herd. Writing competitively — because there is always competition — was a way to give folks you respect a run for their money. Putting words together to make readers howl with laughter or wince with grief became a shared appetite. Words, too often flat or bankrupt in most classes, turned back into magic.

These are students with complicated lives. They juggle demanding courses and part-time positions; they confront family troubles, love, misery, and the fear of an unwritten future. These are young people who had lots of excuses to screw up.

Instead they triumphed.

To succeed in my class, not only were they were instructed to write an essay every week, submit their weekly essays to every member of the class for discussion, and critique (in detail) the writings of the entire rest of the group — they also had to read and provide a detailed critical response to assigned “outside” nonfiction material.

My students made their deadlines. The e-mails and attachments would arrive and my graduate assistant would perform alchemy and put them into a single document. In their responses to their colleagues’ writing, they were both kind and demanding — not an easy mix to get right. They wrote the way the best chefs cook: to present a welcoming audience with a full table, offering work for the delight and satisfaction of others. “Look!” their writing waved “Here’s what I made for you, special, because I’ve learned your tastes. Enjoy it. And tell me how to do it better next time.”

As the dusk rains soaked them as they walked across campus, as the thin, cold air faced us when we left the building, their writing improved — soared or rutted or burst open.

Trust me, this was not because I taught them so magnificently that they blossomed under my tutelage. Yes, I give myself credit for providing guidance and structure, for telling them that I was interested in translating what they thought and felt onto the page, and for offering honest and informed commentary on their work, and I remain quite certain that I earned my state salary.

But the underlying truth is even better: The real reason they kept improving — the real reason I think they’ll remember this class for the next 20 years — is because they came to see the class as an occasion.

Every week, class was occasion to write their hearts out while keeping an eye on their audience. And they rose to the occasion. They prepared feasts for one another; they provided smart and useful advice; they provided the kind of camaraderie that is both rare and memorable even for the most experienced students (and teachers). Some have already sent out their work and seen it in print while others have yet to face the moment when they hit the “send” button and see their work fly out of their hands. I am confident about each and every one of them. It was a privilege to be their instructor.

I hope to read their work for the next 20 years. And although I won’t be grading them and won’t be giving them assignments, I expect we’ll still be having feasts.