I never set out to be a writer. Back in 1979, when I entered the Second Form in a 200 year old, all boys, military school called, The Albany Academy, I simply wanted to become a rock n’ roll star. Like Ringo or Keith Moon, I wanted to play drums in a huge rock band, make a ton of money doing it, get lots of girls, and see the world. While most of the uniformed boys sat attentively in math class, taking copious notes, I drew illustrations of huge drums sets and stared out the window. All that changed when for the first time, I was introduced to Frank Nash in my second term English lit and writing course. First thing that caught my attention was the classroom itself. The Academy was an old building even back then, having been built in the 1920s. Made of stone and strong woods, with real blackboards instead of chalk boards, the place seemed like a kind of time warp. A school caught perpetually in the 19th century instead of one that would see the 21st century in only two more decades.