The Writing Teacher

I went to the writing teacher and she said
Write clearly, honestly, without pretense
I blinked at her, considered, and said

When the feeling is the most real, sometimes I hide
I employ allusion, implication, and metaphor
And isn't that better than nothing at all?
She said I'm sure that style is fun to read
Like a maze in a flowering spring garden
Where even getting lost can be a delight
But to really speak to others, and to know what you feel
You must write unflinchingly, directly, with details
Even the ones you have to wrestle to leave in
For fear of showing too much, for saying what's wrong

And I said I appreciate what you're saying
But we're not all destined for the same things
There are dreamers and scientists
Attorneys and teachers
Thieves, and yes, writers
But we all approach our roles in different ways

Ah, she said, but don't you believe in improvement?
And I said yes, of course, but there is no one path
I'll never write Old Man and the Sea
With its plain language bold on the page
I now know I'm better from afar
Hidden, vague, gone entirely
You see, I'm better as a ghost
Felt but not seen, distantly beautiful
Harsh reality may have worked for Hemmingway
(But did it? Look how he died)
But it can't work for me

I looked her in the eyes as a goodbye, and said
I'm sorry, that just can't work for me