When I was in the 11th grade, I was destined to be a computer programmer.  My teachers and parents supported this, and every summer instead of pressuring me to do normal teenage activities, such as being really good at sports, they sent me to Engineering Camp.  But I had other ideas.  I was fascinated by Animal Intelligence.  My college admissions letter (I still have it) shows me as being accepted into the Anthropology department.  I wanted to be one of those hippies, working with primates in a laboratory, teaching them sign language.

It wasn't long before fate intervened.  I wrote some crappy poems, and an English teacher really liked them.  She wrote in my journal, "I am really looking forward to seeing your writing get published."  She wasn't even my actual English teacher; she taught something called "Communications" at the Engineering Camp, but that was all the intermittent-schedule reinforcement I needed.  I hastily wrote to the University of Miami that I wanted to be an English major instead.

That was nearly twenty years ago.  Today, despite having been rejected by some of the most prestigious Creative Writing MFA programs in the country, I make a living as a DOT NET computer programmer.