The summer of 1993 was disappearing and the strawberry harvesting was winding down. The migrant workers were on the downtown streets of Watsonville more and in the fields less. They were still wearing their dirty straw hats, flannels and cheap cowboy boots. The school year was just starting. The world smelled like bubble gum to me. The girls next door chewed bubble gum and flipped their blonde hair around while I sat at my computer looking out the window. You see, I was only sixteen then but I was writing the great American novel. I didn’t dream of boys and cheerleading and sports. I dreamt of paper and ink and diskettes and the smell of a new book.

I woke every morning at six that summer and went downstairs to the kitchen and made myself a cup of French vanilla coffee. I’d go back up to my room and power up the computer and start typing away. I spent my entire summer closed up in my room