First Day of Professor Mardue’s Writing Class


“Welcome, students, welcome. I am professor Mardue, pronounced Mar-doo-way, not Mar-doo. Please don’t call me professor Mar-doo. Our family is from Argentina. We don’t say it Mar-doo. We say it Mar-doo-way.

“Now that you’re all in your seats, the first thing we do is take out all of paper, pens, or pencils, and place them on the desks. Yes, anything that you can write with, or write on, put right there on your desk-top. I will collect it. I am coming around with my trash-can. See, I’m putting all of your writing stuff in this old blue trash can. My hungry trash can is eating up all of your stuff. Goodbye yellow pencil, goodbye green felt-tip, goodbye red binder. There, there and there; all gone. You won’t need any of that stuff from now on.

“I know exactly why you’re here. You are here to get help with your writing. You all have been identified as ‘problem writers.’ Everyone in this room has tried the standard remedies, and they haven’t worked—your problems still persist. That is because your other classes were too lenient and you got away with murder. But not here, not now. Your problems with writing are over.

“That is because you will never write again. Not a shopping list, not a note to your friends, not a diary entry, not an email. You are hereby forbidden to write even a single letter of the alphabet. You may not write numbers. You may not write your name. For you, language is spoken only—any other kind of representation you may not do. You’ve had your chance, and you have shown that you cannot handle writing. Normal people can handle a little bit of writing, but for people like you, complete abstinence is the only cure. There is no such thing as writing ‘in moderation’ for the real problem writer. Don’t even think about it.

“What is that, Hermann? Snickering? I assure you that this is no joke. And what is that sticking out of those baggy pants? Your cell phone…I see. Give that to me. No, I’m not going to throw your phone away, Hermann, I just want to hold it up for the class to see. You see Hermann’s phone, everyone? Yes, Lily, it is a very nice phone—a Raz-R, if I’m not mistaken. Now, I push this button, and what do I see? Yes, Hermann has been sending and receiving text messages. Look, I can see what day and time he sent his very last one. I show you this because I will be randomly checking cell phones for the rest of the term. If I find any sent text messages dated after today—instant F. And don’t even think about sending email—I have ways of checking on that. No writing! No writing! No writing!


“What is that, big boy in the impossibly large athletic shirt? Did I hear you cough so as to cover up the phrase “psycho-nerd” that you keep muttering under your breath to your gangster friends? Keep that up and you’ll get a big fat 'F.' Now how would that look on your transcript?

“Let’s get out our textbooks. We are going to do a group reading about the history of the English language. Would you start please, short girl in the way-too-skimpy beige skirt with the fringes on it? Page 22, where it says ' The Celts...'

Less than a week later Mardue made his first bust—Antoine was caught with math homework sticking out of his backpack. Mardue let him off with a warning. Soon infractions of the no-writing rule began cropping up everywhere. Hermann taunted Mardue openly with a rambling six-page essay on tattoos that he had put together for sociology class. Before he knew it, Mardue was neck-deep in student writing of all kinds; he was kept frantic ferreting out the forbidden writing and making threats about grades. The students seemed to enjoy the vein-popping rages that frequently overtook Mardue as he discovered violation after violation.
The following Thursday principal Smalley, short and rotund, checked on Mardue and found the room awash in the printed word. Students were bent over their desks writing, others were taping specimens of writing to the wall, and still others were reading aloud from things that they had written, competing to be heard.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Mardue, you really have ‘em working,” said Smalley, taking in the scene. “Most of our composition teachers can’t get any work out of ‘em at all.”
“It’s pronounced Mar-doo-way,” Mardue corrected Smalley, licking his lips and nervously twisting one end of his moustache between long, spidery fingers, “Mar-doo-way. Not Mar—doo.”