In early November they accepted a tentative first round: ten fiction writers, twelve memoirists, and twelve poets, mostly from the Southeast but also as far away as Vermont and Oregon. There were twenty women and fourteen men. There was a veteran of the first Gulf War (female) and a ninety-year-old sod farmer (male). Two applicants indicated that they were in recovery from homosexual impulses, and Marianne liked to imagine them falling off the wagon together.

She made each of the phone calls, delivered to family answering machines and cell phone voicemails, and, occasionally, to a live voice.

“Hello,” she said late one afternoon, then faltered. It was the last call of the day and she was tired. She began again. “Hello. May I please speak to Janine Gray?”

There were voices in the background, the sound of kitchen work. “This is Janine.”

“My name is Marianne Stuart, and I’m calling from the Genesis Ranch. We’d like to admit you to our first class of poets.”

The background voices got quieter, but the woman did not speak. For a moment Marianne thought they’d been disconnected, then she caught the sound of her breathing, a heavy door closing behind her.

“I’m sorry, please say that again.”

Marianne repeated herself and stated the dates for the first session, which would take place over two weeks. She told her when to expect paperwork and talked up Lorraine’s gifts as a workshop leader.

“I don’t know if I should cry or jump up and down,” the woman said, but did neither, just breathed rapidly into the phone. She did not ask to hear Lorraine’s name repeated.

“Your poems are … different,” Marianne said. “But we like them. They’re very moving.”

“Thank you,” said the woman. “My husband thinks they come from God.”

“Is that where you think they come from?”

“I don’t know,” said the woman. “Sometimes I think so. They seem to just come out of me.”

“Well,” said Marianne, picturing her wildest, youngest classes at P.S. 150, the way the children careened about the room, stopping now and then to write a word, a syllable, on the pulpy gray paper she arranged across their desks. She was overcome by a sudden doubt about the Ranch, something that happened every afternoon around this time. What if this woman said such a thing to Lorraine?

But this conversation was about the delivery of praise, which she recognized from long experience as the food of poets. “The committee was unanimous about your work,” Marianne told her.

“Thank you,” the woman said again. “That means a lot to me. I didn’t have any expectations about this. I didn’t know what I’d hear back.”

Marianne made a check mark next to Janine’s name.