It Was The First Day Of The Fall Semester Several Years Ago. I Had Just Finished Making The Final Adjustments To An Earlier Edition Of This Book, Which Was Due To Be Published The Following January. I Felt Pretty Good About Myself, As If I'd Just Accomplished Something Monumental. Let's Face It: Being Able To Call Yourself An Author Is Pretty Cool. Even My Two Sons, Who Were School-age At The Time, Were Impressed With Me (although Not As Impressed As The Time We Went To A Professional Hockey Game And I Leaped Out Of My Seat To Catch An Errant, Speeding Puck Barehanded). I Walked Confidently Into The First Meeting Of My Introduction To Sociology Class Eager To Start Teaching Wide-eyed, First-year Students A Thing Or Two About Sociology. In My Opening Comments To The Class That Day, I Self-importantly Mentioned That I Had Just Written This Book. The Panicked Look In Students' Eyes-a Curious Combination Of Awe And Fear-calmed When I Told Them I Wouldn't Be Requiring Them To Read It That Semester. I Mentioned That The Process Of Writing An Introductory Text Helped Me Immensely In Preparing For The Course And That I Looked Forward To Passing On To Them The Knowledge I Had Accumulated. The Next Day After Class, One Of The Students-a Bright-eyed, Freshly Scrubbed First-year Student-approached Me. The Ensuing Conversation Left A Humbling Impression That Lasts To This Day: Student: Hi. Umm. Professor Newman... I Texted My Parents Last Night To, Like, Tell Them How My First Day In College Went. I Think They Were, Like, More Nervous Than I Was. You Know How Parents Can Be. Me: Yes, I Sure Do. I'm A Parent Myself, You Know. Student: Yeah, Whatever. Anyway, I Was Telling Them About My Classes And My Professors And Stuff. I Told Them About This Class And How I Thought It Would Be Pretty Cool. I Told Them You Had Written A Book. I Thought That Would Impress Them, You Know, Make It Seem Like They Were Getting Their Money's Worth And Everything. Me: Well, Thanks. Student: So, The