Let’s set the way-back machine for 1994, the first day of advanced creative writing class with David Foster Wallace.
Hmm, are we there? Good.
First impression. Who’s the guy in the doo-rag and the NKOTB t-shirt? And, why is he chewing tobacco like a fiend?
I’m in trouble. I don’t know what otiose, fecund, or inchoate means.
Why is this guy leering at all the girls?
He keeps saying if we don’t want to be here, drop the class. Maybe I should seriously consider dropping?
This guy’s average grade is a D minus?
He’s going to be the flamethrower to our ass? Sounds unpleasant.
3 hours later, I knew for a fact that I was in trouble. I was from what he called a “back-woods” county.
I had never heard of David Foster Wallace, but apparently he was a “big deal” writer and I should drop the class so a more worthy student, of which there were many waiting, could take my spot.
I didn’t drop the class, and I did better than a D minus.