The fiction workshop met for the first time a few days ago.  I was a little disappointed.  In my head I had expected a round classroom with a round table.  The classroom was not round and maybe three inches smaller than I expected.  The table was a rectangle.  Part of me thought, “This rectangle table is a piece of shit.”  It felt like some of the second year fiction writers were pointing at me and thinking, “Look at that fuckface, he really thought the classrooms were round.”

John Edgar Wideman seems like the motherfucker.  He is the instructor of the fiction workshop.  When I first saw him I got a boner.  Not that I’m attracted to balding, older men, but he’s got a general presence that says, “Man up, get hard, fuck something.”  Actually, his presence suggested none of these things.  Mostly John Edgar Wideman’s presence suggested all the fiction writers do what you have to do to do what you want to do.  I don’t think anyone thought, “Man up, get hard, fuck something,” when John Edgar Wideman’s presence said, “This is a workshop, you do some things, hopefully they help you and make you better, but sometimes you don’t get better.  Writing is hard.  Even if you write a book maybe it will get reviewed four times if you’re lucky.  Maybe it’s different on the internet.  I don’t know.”

There are a number of reasons why John Edgar Wideman is the motherfucker and a looming presence, but the reason most people remember is that he doesn’t use the internet.  He said, “Someone taught me to use google once.  Then my computer was stolen and I didn’t bother after that.”  He has his wife print out his emails and read them to him.  He says, “She doesn’t mind because I make money and it’s just how it’s arranged.”  John Edgar Wideman’s presence is just being John Edgar Wideman’s presence.

In my head I did not expect the instructor of the workshop to be the motherfucker.  I expected an instructor who would not be that far removed from a very depressed and drugged Andrew McCarthy.  John Edgar Wideman is probably the antithesis of a depressed and drugged Andrew McCarthy.  I’m pretty sure Andrew McCarthy has a myspace account.  Andrew McCarthy probably wishes he didn’t know how to use google.  Andrew McCarthy should probably make a movie where he and Molly Ringwald are married and she prints out his emails and reads them to him and the movie can be called A John Edgar Wideman Presence.  Early stages of development currently underway, see trailer for more details.