I am writing this letter from the Billerica House of Corrections in Billerica, Massachusetts, where I'm serving a six-month sentence for my third drunk-driving conviction. I'm not what I consider a typical inmate here, as I've never had any difficulties with the law other than my drunk-driving arrests. No one in my family has ever spent time in prison so I have the dubious distinction of being the first. I'm married, pay taxes, have a good paying job, a college education, a house, and I'm a graduate student pursuing my Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing at a college in Boston. But alcohol doesn't care about any of these details, as impressive as they might be in my own mind. In here, I'm just another convict who broke the law.