In high school I was the sneering back-row smart-ass with cow-lot boots propped defiantly on a chair. My senior year, I cut so many classes and absorbed so many suspensions that state requirements forced me to spend summer hours in our Principal’s office before they’d award my diploma. Unlike today’s “Gap Year” high school grads, I was a “Gap Decade” clodhopper who couldn’t stomach the thought of more “book learnin'.” That attitude lasted until the 1980s farm crisis drove me to seek a reliable income that was not dependent on weather, ag prices, and equipment breakdowns. Naïve as Alice in Wonderland, I came to Western in August 1983. I was seeking only creative writing classes so I could write the elusive Great American Novel, become famous and wealthy, and pay mortgages that would all too soon have me staring into the eyes of a bankruptcy judge. I was so desperate that I called up memories from high school when I was the guy whose assignments my friends copied, especially in English classes. From the time I learned to speak and listen I'd been in a love affair with stories. I was a voracious reader in elementary school, especially seeking stories of cowboys, hunting, and historical figures. Elders would egg me on with, "Tell us a story, Billy."