With the journaling class under my belt, I bit the bullet and enrolled in Introduction to Creative Writing at Phoenix College. It sounded like one of those pesky prerequisite classes that serve as the portal, the magic gateway, to the enchanted island. Best slog through it so I could move on to the real thing. I found the classroom the first Saturday morning and had my pick of desks – rows and rows – all empty. Obviously, not a crowd-pleaser. But then, I’m one of those irritating students who arrive early – before the bell rings and the doors close. So eventually, other victims joined me. The instructor bustled in with a backpack and a laptop and proceeded to attempt to connect to the electronic gizmos dangling out of the wall near the desk at the front of the room. She smiled and introduced herself as Jimmy Berlin – yes, her name was Jimmy and she didn’t know why her mother picked that name – and she was a poet. I was impressed. This was the first time I had met a real, live poet – and a published one at that. The plot thickens.