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The first thing I must say: I will never send this letter to you. I can never do it. You are not ready for it, and I pray that you never will be.
No doubt it occurred to you, during the time that you taught me, that I had an immense respect for you. You alone were a huge influence on my character, on my writing, on my actions throughout high school, even if you had not known it.
So that is why it hurt me, wounded me so much when you once called my work cliché, or unoriginal even, when I submitted it to you some time for approval. My stories, my work I had given to you, would not capture an audience or cause a reader to empathize with the character. It just wouldn’t be interesting.
I would go back and make my stories more appealing, the plots more relatable, in order for the nonexistent reader to be interested, at most. I would cast away the personalities I had gifted to the characters and replace them with ones that were more inspiring, more understandable. I would finish the pieces and return it to you, for what I assumed was a good grade and a nod of approval, which, at the time, was all that really mattered to me.
It wasn’t until today, a year after I had left high school for the bigger, scarier world of college that I realized I had sacrificed the art that I had created and loved and understood and connected with for your definition of a good novel, an interesting piece of prose. It wasn’t until today that I realized I had been writing pieces, stories that people didn’t want to read because they were true, because they held the truth. I had been writing life. I had been writing stories of people being presented with opportunities, and failing to recognize those opportunities for what they were, and missing them, and mourning them, and you had told me they were flat, and could use more color. I had been writing stories of a boy that fit right in society, and wasn’t different, and had thoughts and feelings so complicated that no one could understand, but couldn’t say anything because that what people can’t do, and you had told me they were stereotypical, and could use some variety. I had been writing stories of a girl who couldn’t connect with her mother, or live up to her expectations, and fulfill her dreams so she just went along with life because she didn’t know what else to do, and you had told me they were too common, and could use a more direct approach.
But no one wants to read how terrible and how full of regrets life is. They live it every day. No one wants to read about how it’s hard to fit in to society, how hard it is to express yourself. They see it every day. And no one wants to read about crushed dreams and purposeless lives. They feel it every day, every breath. No. They want something that takes them away, that makes them happy, and feel good about themselves; they want something that makes them feel worthwhile and magical, and hopeful most of all. They want to see the world as the books they read portray it as: filled with light, love, and peace, and moments of strength and forgiveness and overcoming the evil inside of us. After all, they prefer to feel like there is still hope for us all.
I refuse to serve them that. I see the world for what it is, just like everybody else, but I am the only one that wants to live in it, that wants to experience the hardships and the pain and the dirt and the corruption and the sorrow. Because that’s what life is. If I write a story that is anything other than that, I am hiding from what I do not like to see. I am simply postponing my life to experience goodness. So instead, I write the honest, brutal truth of what I feel and see. I write the endings that leave you unfulfilled. I write the characters that you hate, that you know you are. And I write the stories that leave you crushed, that make you grow upset, that make you angry. Because that’s what life is. And maybe if people were willing to read the things I wrote, to accept and understand them, then maybe we wouldn’t have this world we all hate so much, because the people wouldn’t be so busy dreaming of a better world, they would be working to better the world instead. Because it’s only when we step into the mud of the world do we realize exactly how deep it is, and how much work we need to suffer before we see the grass again. Maybe when that is done, we can read and write the stories of the world we see, and the stories will be filled with light and love and peace.
All I ask is that you take that step. See the truth as it is, and write the truth as it is, and do not criticize that work until it is no longer true.

Description
The first thing I must say: I will never send this letter to you. I can never do it. You are not ready for it, and I pray that you never will be.
No doubt it occurred to you, during the time that you taught me, that I had an immense respect for you. You alone were a huge influence on my character, on my writing, on my actions throughout high school, even if you had not known it.
So that is why it hurt me, wounded me so much when you once called my work cliché, or unoriginal even, when I submitted it to you some time for approval. My stories, my work I had given to you, would not capture an audience or cause a reader to empathize with the character. It just wouldn’t be interesting.
I would go back and make my stories more appealing, the plots more relatable, in order for the nonexistent reader to be interested, at most. I would cast away the personalities I had gifted to the characters and replace them with ones that were more inspiring, more understandable. I would finish the pieces and return it to you, for what I assumed was a good grade and a nod of approval, which, at the time, was all that really mattered to me.
It wasn’t until today, a year after I had left high school for the bigger, scarier world of college that I realized I had sacrificed the art that I had created and loved and understood and connected with for your definition of a good novel, an interesting piece of prose. It wasn’t until today that I realized I had been writing pieces, stories that people didn’t want to read because they were true, because they held the truth. I had been writing life. I had been writing stories of people being presented with opportunities, and failing to recognize those opportunities for what they were, and missing them, and mourning them, and you had told me they were flat, and could use more color. I had been writing stories of a boy that fit right in society, and wasn’t different, and had thoughts and feelings so complicated that no one could understand, but couldn’t say anything because that what people can’t do, and you had told me they were stereotypical, and could use some variety. I had been writing stories of a girl who couldn’t connect with her mother, or live up to her expectations, and fulfill her dreams so she just went along with life because she didn’t know what else to do, and you had told me they were too common, and could use a more direct approach.
But no one wants to read how terrible and how full of regrets life is. They live it every day. No one wants to read about how it’s hard to fit in to society, how hard it is to express yourself. They see it every day. And no one wants to read about crushed dreams and purposeless lives. They feel it every day, every breath. No. They want something that takes them away, that makes them happy, and feel good about themselves; they want something that makes them feel worthwhile and magical, and hopeful most of all. They want to see the world as the books they read portray it as: filled with light, love, and peace, and moments of strength and forgiveness and overcoming the evil inside of us. After all, they prefer to feel like there is still hope for us all.
I refuse to serve them that. I see the world for what it is, just like everybody else, but I am the only one that wants to live in it, that wants to experience the hardships and the pain and the dirt and the corruption and the sorrow. Because that’s what life is. If I write a story that is anything other than that, I am hiding from what I do not like to see. I am simply postponing my life to experience goodness. So instead, I write the honest, brutal truth of what I feel and see. I write the endings that leave you unfulfilled. I write the characters that you hate, that you know you are. And I write the stories that leave you crushed, that make you grow upset, that make you angry. Because that’s what life is. And maybe if people were willing to read the things I wrote, to accept and understand them, then maybe we wouldn’t have this world we all hate so much, because the people wouldn’t be so busy dreaming of a better world, they would be working to better the world instead. Because it’s only when we step into the mud of the world do we realize exactly how deep it is, and how much work we need to suffer before we see the grass again. Maybe when that is done, we can read and write the stories of the world we see, and the stories will be filled with light and love and peace.
All I ask is that you take that step. See the truth as it is, and write the truth as it is, and do not criticize that work until it is no longer true.